


Auld Lang Syne

by cincoflex



Series: Casa Caliente [10]
Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Casa Caliente, F/M, New Year's Eve, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-03
Updated: 2018-12-03
Packaged: 2019-09-06 01:25:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16822351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cincoflex/pseuds/cincoflex
Summary: New Year's Eve brings disagreements and a murder into Grissom and Sara's relationship.





	1. Chapter 1

Auld Lang Syne

Chapter One

Grissom set the phone down, stood, and pulled his slacks on, moving quickly but methodically. He fished in the armoire for a shirt.  
On the bed behind him, Sara shifted the pillow behind her and fidgeted a bit. The nightstand clock read one twenty-two PM and a faint bit of overcast light came through the French doors of the bedroom.

“Please?” she asked huskily, pursing her mouth in a pout.

“Sara, no.”

“Grissom, come on! We’re a partnership, right? A duo, a pair, a team. And as a team, it’s only fair to take turns. We do that with a lot of other things around here: dishes, laundry, litter box duty . . . I don’t see why we can’t apply that to this!” she insisted softly, but urgently. He fished out a pair of socks and dropped himself into the new rocking chair to put them on.

“Because the only place in this house where we DON’T have parity is this bedroom. Here, I’m in charge—you know that, I know that; it’s the way it is. And I’m not going to . . . indulge.”

“That’s not fair! I did it to YOU and you didn’t seem to mind!”

“That was . . . different,” came Grissom’s reluctant admission, tinted with embarrassment and lust.

“How?”

“Sara, it just WAS. I’m telling you here and now that I’m not going to spank you and that’s final,” Grissom finally snapped, exasperated. “I don’t hit women, not now, not ever. I’ve seen too much of the aftermath for something like that to have any intrigue for me.”

He grabbed his boots from under the bed.

Sara drew in a calming breath. She loved Grissom dearly, but sometimes she wanted to howl, particularly when he got stubborn about the wrong things. She tried again, softly.

“You know as well as I do it’s not about abuse. It’s about power, and play, babe. About the way you love to control me, and the way I love you to control me. And let’s be honest, Grissom—you’ve never hurt me. We’ve bounced on the mattress, we’ve slammed on the carpet, we claw each other and get into some really wild stuff sometimes—a spanking isn’t even close to what we’ve already DONE with each other.”

He paused, considering the truth of Sara’s straightforward words. In all the time they’d been together in a physical sense, they’d certainly done a lot of things he’d never thought he’d get a chance to do, much less with a gorgeous, generous, loving partner. The naked picnic in the back yard was one. The time Sara had lured him into a quickie right on top the kitchen table between their dinner dishes. The night they’d made out at the movies . . . 

Grissom shifted, fighting his sudden surge of below the belt enthusiasm at the memories. Sara propped her head up on her elbow and watched him continue to get dressed.

She hated it when a phone call interrupted important discussions like this, but Grissom was the only entomologist around, and crime scenes didn’t wait, particularly those with insects. Sara rose and padded out to the kitchen to make him some coffee for the road, thinking hard. There had to be a way to convince him. There HAD to be.

She drummed her fingers on the countertop, only half listening to Grissom packing up things in the garage. Sara closed her eyes and laid the current problem out in her head, point by point, trying to see a logical solution.

Point one—she wanted her turn at being spanked. Sara briefly let a smile flicker across her face at the memory of Grissom’s experience under her palm. Oh he’d liked that well enough, yes. Despite his strong Alpha male bravado and wonderfully pragmatic ways he had his little weaknesses, his hidden kinks. Hell, his penchant for stocking bondage alone would make Catherine shiver, and Nick turn pale if they ever found out.

And there were other things . . .

Sara also knew Grissom had a temper, and that he kept it under scrupulous control most of the time, but she had seen it flare out in white-hot bursts, all the more frightening for their scarcity. An angry Grissom was one hell of an intimidating thing to see: his eyes would narrow to blue laser intensity, his brows drawing together, his fine mouth curling into a faint scowl.

And the voice—that cold, cutting low tone that warned of impending doom. She’d heard that once or twice in her life, always grateful it wasn’t directed at herself. That sort of fury needed checking. Sara understood that, comprehended Grissom’s desire to keep his potential for rage in check.

But this was so different.

This was about THEM. About the subtle trust, the edge of desire and conflict that drove the two of them to loving madness. Weeks would pass in delightful, warm, happy intimacy for them: happy, hot, straightforward sex, kisses and cuddles while slowly building underneath it all, the lovely darker desires would begin to rise again. Sara knew the signs within herself, could see them in Grissom as well. Harder kisses, a bite here and there, a sharp whispered comment of utter profanity as the cravings grew within them both.

And when neither of them could take it any longer, Grissom would look at her in that certain way, and she’d know, shuddering in the sheer pleasure of anticipation.

Let the games begin.

Grissom came into the kitchen and Sara jumped, shaken out of her reverie by his appearance. He avoided her glance, but took the coffee she offered and gave a grateful grunt. Sara said nothing.

Grissom sighed.

“This case will probably take me right into the shift tonight,” he told her with regret. She nodded. Grissom reached over and lifted her chin, forcing her to meet his slightly stern expression. “Don’t sulk, Acushla. You know as well as I do what’s . . . coming.”

Sara lifted her chin out of his hand in a dainty, defiant move. “Yeah. New Year’s, Grissom. Time for changes,” she warned.

*** *** ***

“Catherine, have you seen this?” Nick demanded, pointing to the posted notice on the break room wall. She nodded, a slow smirk crossing her face before she sipped her coffee. Nick sighed harshly.  
“Great! A formal New Year’s Eve party at the Tangiers, co-sponsored by the Clark County Sheriff’s Office and the Las Vegas Police Department! Do you KNOW what that means?”

Catherine paused a moment and thought.  
“Let’s see—about three hundred law enforcement people dressed to the nines, eating hors d’oeuvres and drinking champagne while engaged in political intrigue and small talk?”

Nick blinked for a moment, but charged on,  
“Well yeah, but it also means I’ve gotta go rent or buy a formal suit! Man, I hate those things," he griped, rubbing his face and growling at the paper, as if it had personally mocked him somehow. 

Catherine rose and sauntered over to him, laying a consoling arm over his broad shoulders.  
“Nick, Nick, Nick—let’s keep the words of ZZ Top in mind here. You’re a good-looking guy, and in the right outfit, I guarantee you’ll be devastating. Think of the swath you could cut through the secretarial pools of both branches here."

Nick grinned a bit at that happier image, his eyebrows going up along with the corners of his mouth. Catherine nodded approvingly.

“Yeah, but I’m no good at that kind of shopping, Cath—jeans and tees are more my style.”

She nodded, a gleam in her eyes as she checked her watch. “I know, but we’ll hit the shops in the Forum after we’re off the clock and I’ll get you into Hugo Boss or Armani so fast your head will spin, Stokes.”

“Armani—that’s Italian for waaay out of my price range, Catherine!” Nick protested weakly. She patted his shoulder commiserating and laughed. Sara strode in and made a beeline to the coffee pot, pouting when she noticed it was nearly empty.

Catherine eyed her carefully. “So, Sara—got your Astrabellas ready to go? Something sultry, slinky and black to haul out of the closet and dazzle the masses?”

Sara shot her a puzzled look; Nick tapped the posted notice. “New Year’s Eve bash, Sare . . . semi-mandatory if you want to get ahead.”

“Got a head already, thanks. I’ll pass.”

“No you won’t,” Catherine announced firmly, the mental circuits in her matchmaking software firing up so clearly that Sara would practically see it glowing though her eyes. Catherine advanced on her, giving Sara the once over. Speaking softly, she murmured, “As night shift supervisor, Grissom HAS to attend. He’s going to hate every minute of it and try to leave early like he does for every social function he’s ever been required to attend. However, he does look good in his tux and—”

“Grissom has a tux?” Sara demanded, loudly enough for Nick to saunter over and look from Catherine to her and back again.

“You’re kidding? Grissom already OWNS a monkey suit?” he scoffed, white teeth flashing.

A quiet voice from the doorway cut through the skepticism. “Actually, it’s a charcoal, two button single breasted, one hundred percent worsted wool tuxedo with satin lapels, Nick,” Grissom corrected mildly. 

The younger man flushed brick red, swallowing painfully. “Ah, listen, Griss—!"

“Greg’s been trying to page you.”

Nick slunk away as Grissom turned to shoot Catherine an irritated glance.

She met it coolly, a smile in place. “You ought to pull it out of mothballs early and let it air out, you know,” came her comment as she tugged Sara’s arm and they sailed past him.

Grissom frowned. “My tux?”

“Your libido.”

*** *** ***

Sara had dutifully filed her request for personal leave and received approval; her surgery was scheduled for January 6th. Grissom brought her the signed form himself as she sat in Trace Lab One, carefully sorting through sections of carpet from a suspicious domestic dispute. 

She glanced over the paper and gave a pragmatic little nod. “Thanks. I can call the hospital and get squared away for next week, which is probably enough time to get this stupid carpet done. Fifteen samples and all of them are so saturated with pet urine it’s hard to find traces of anything else,” the frustration in her voice didn’t quite mask her anxiety, and Grissom gently brushed her hand with his.

“Sara . . .” he began softly, his voice low. She didn’t look at him, knowing if she did that gentle blue-eyed glance would melt away her resolve. Instead she flashed a quick, artificial smile at him instead and then checked her watch.

“Whoa! Listen, Catherine’s taking Nick shopping and she asked me to come along, so I’ve got to go. Don’t want to let her down.” She finally risked a peek at him and added, “It’s not kind to disappoint people.”

His mouth twitched a little, but she couldn’t tell if it was to frown or smile. She squared her shoulders. “And I’ll need a dress for New Year’s—Catherine tells me I’m going, whether I like it or not.”

His mouth slid into a quick, hard frown, and seeing it, Sara realized the potential advantage of the moment. She smiled and began to pack up the carpet samples. Carefully she handed the box to Grissom, adding, “She says she’s going to fix me up, but good, whatever THAT means.”

His frown deepened, and Sara sailed out of the door of Trace Lab One feeling quite smug for the moment.

Within half an hour, Nick, Catherine and Sara were walking down the huge airy atrium of the Forum. Nick seemed lost, but Catherine led them unerringly through the crowds to the elegant brass and marble doorway of Ellington’s.

Nick eyed the shop warily, but Catherine pushed him through the door while Sara trailed behind. The lush interior was done in burgundy and gold, with thick carpeting and tasteful Art Deco trim along the molding and wainscoting. A painfully thin blond clerk appeared, eyeing Nick and sizing him up in a glance.

“My name is Trevor, and how may I assist you today, sir?”

“Ah, yeah. I need a tux,” Nick began uncertainly.

“Morning, Trev. We’re in the market for a well-cut two button tux in mid-weight wool, anything from house brand to designer label within a moderate price range, please,” Catherine spoke softly but with authority. 

The clerk smiled and gave a slight bow to her. “Certainly, Ma’am. Are we accessorizing as well?”

“Yep. Cummerbund, shirt, tie, the whole nine yards. What’s your waist these days, Nick?”

“The gentleman is a thirty-four, with an inseam of thirty-eight. This way, sir,” Trevor remarked before Nick could even open his mouth.

Sara laughed.“Now THAT’S a clerk with a good eye,” she pointed out.

Catherine nodded as the clerk led Nick off to a dressing suite on the other side of the shop. The two women browsed for a while; Sara through shirts, and Catherine around the bow tie display. Finally she smiled at Sara. “So. New Year’s. You and Grissom.”

“And three hundred other people, yeah.”

“Quiet, I’m thinking. The trick is to nab two of those big tables early unless they’ve got place cards out. They usually seat about twelve, so two of them would cover the lab night shift and their dates. The key to romance is proximity. Well, that and good lingerie.”

Sara thought of her drawer full of new silk panties and said nothing.

Catherine glanced at her. “What have you got to wear, Sara?”

“Um . . . I’ve got two dresses.”

The look Catherine shot her made it clear that this was not only pitiful, but also ridiculous. Sara tried again. “Two FORMAL dresses, one sort of green grey, backless and mid-calf. The other’s a really old black and pink Gunne Sax from my mom . . .”

“Scratch THOSE,” Catherine snorted. At that moment Nick emerged, tugging on his sleeves and looking around for them. The suit was darkly elegant, even with the tee shirt underneath it.

“So?” he demanded, slightly nervous, slightly eager.  
Sara and Catherine circled him.

“Ooooh, Nick. You DO have a nice set of shoulders,” Sara observed. He dimpled a smile.

Catherine shook her head. “The suit’s good, but not great on you Nick. The cut is just a hair off under the arms; you’re going to have trouble with the sleeves every time you lift your hands.”

Next to her, Trevor nodded in agreement. He waved Nick back into the dressing room as Catherine absently picked up a pair of socks and turned back to Sara. “So you need a dress. Something designed to show off your legs, of course, since they’re one of your best assets. You do have shoes, don’t you?”

Sara gave her colleague a grin and managed a one shouldered shrug as she softly admitted, “Ooh yeah. I’ve got shoes. I actually have a pair of Astrabellas. From three years ago, before the company took off.”

Catherine shot her an approving look just as Nick came out again in a sleek, black Ralph Lauren number that gave him a boyish, yet sophisticated look. The trim lines accented his lean physique, and the cut this time was perfect. Nick grinned as Catherine ran her hand over the lapels. “Hubba hubba! Mr. Stokes you are going to knock them dead!” she announced gleefully.

Over Nick’s shoulder, Trevor managed a quiet smile of a job well done.

*** *** ***

By the time Sara returned to the house it was nearly noon and she was yawning. Quietly she let herself in; Figaro sauntered over to her, his tail flicking back and forth. She gave him a quick pat after she hung up her coat. A peek in the bedroom revealed the familiar bulk of Grissom, asleep, and a pang went through Sara as she took a moment to study him from the doorway. He was curled up, clutching her pillow although she didn’t know if that had been a conscious choice or not, and his breathing was slow and deep.

There was something endearing about catching sight of him in an unguarded moment like this; his big-boned sprawl reminded her of a contented lion. His hair and beard were slightly rumpled, and the sweet curve of his cheek lent a boyish softness to a face that was often grave. Sara smiled.

A quick brush of teeth and change of clothing later she slipped into the bed, moving slowly, but Grissom sensed her arrival and sleepily reached for her, enveloping Sara in a warm embrace as she wiggled down under the blanket. Peaceful relaxation flooded through her, and Sara let herself slip into sleep, contented that despite her disappointment all was right in the house for the moment.

_Work. He looked at his desk, at the familiar objects and files and layout, knowing what it was and where it was, but also aware that things were also not as tangible as he wanted. Slightly frustrated, he rose and moved into the hall, looking for some confirmation of his situation._

__

__

Long halls, glass walls. Familiar enough. He walked to Greg’s lab and looked in, prepared to speak and froze. Greg blinked at him expectantly. 

“I have twenty twenty fours,” he announced, whiskers twitching as he spoke. All Grissom could do was nod. The twenty twenty fours were important, suddenly very important. Greg was a lab rabbit. A tall, thin, white furred lab rabbit with lop ears. Twenty twenty fours. Grissom turned and went back down the hall. He watched Catherine head towards him, a violin in her paws. Her smile was full of sharp teeth. 

“Wer gab weg die grünen Drachen?” she demanded, her fox tail waving to and fro impatiently. Grissom blinked, trying to recall who gave away the green kites, but all he could remember were the blue kites, and the twenty twenty fours. Catherine’s vixen gaze narrowed, and her fur bristled. Pushing past him, she thrust the violin in his hands and stalked off, her pointed ears twitching. 

Grissom walked further down the hall, feeling urgent now. The violin in his hands turned into Sara’s plant, and then into a pair of green kites. He tried not to step on the trailing tails as he made his way to the break room. It turned into a supermarket—the condiment aisle. 

Warrick was there. He glanced up, his coyote-green eyes wide as he nodded to Grissom and took the kites. In one long leap he jumped to the top shelf, his tail trailing over the relish and catsup bottles as he disappeared. Grissom made his way to the end of the aisle. Ronnie, from QD stood on his haunches, blinking and chewing on the stalk of bamboo, his black ears twitching. Grissom passed him by. 

The next aisle was full of sand. Grissom watched it pour off of the shelves in long sifting cascades, sparkling in the light, looking dull and heavy. Grissom tried to step through it, but it pulled on him, and he struggled against the tide. On the far end of the aisle was the doorway back to his office; he could see the shelves of jars, the stacks of journals waiting for him. He tried to wade through the sand, but it mired him. 

“I WANT the blue kites, Grissom. Cometas azules!” Sara insisted from the doorway. He felt a hot rush of desire charge down through his spine, felt the muscles of his stomach tighten as he looked at her lean furry beauty. Delicate paws, big bold brown eyes; Sara the panther paced the doorway, snarling a little. With one final push he made it through the sand and grabbed the doorframe, pulling himself up and into the office. Before he could reach for Sara he caught a glimpse of his reflection. 

_Just his human self. Naked._

*** *** *** 

“I HAVE a suit, so don’t look at me like that,” Warrick grumbled at Catherine. They were checking plant tissue evidence through a microscope. His partner merely batted her eyes and waited; Warrick sighed. “Fine. It’s a St. Lauren black crepe with a standing collar shirt and a gold bolo tie, all right? No cummerbund but French cuffs and I wear my Brunos with it.” 

Catherine gave an appreciative sigh and Warrick pinkened slightly in the face of such admiration. For a moment they continued working, Catherine writing up notes and Warrick changing slides; she concentrated until he cleared his throat. “So what’s your plan?” 

“My plan?” She tried to sound innocent, but Warrick gave her a twisted grin, patient and endearing.

“Your plan for Big G and the double S, Catherine. Don’t deny it, you’ve got that look on your face.” 

“Ah, THAT plan. Well, part of it is going to hinge on what she and I can find at Rothschild’s, but I’ve no doubt I can find something that will pique a certain supervisor’s interest in her. Remind him that there’s more to Sara Sidle than just her brain.” 

“Like her incredible legs,” Warrick murmured appreciatively, “And her sleek hips, and her mighty fine boo—” Catherine clapped a hand over his mouth, her irritation only ten percent genuine as her eyes twinkled. 

“Down, Brown. Let’s remember who’s supposed to be zooming who here.” 

He laughed against her hand but nodded faintly. Catherine pulled her fingers away again. “We keep them in proximity all the way through midnight. I get some champagne into both of them; make sure they’ve had a dance or two together, and voila! An evening to remember.” 

“Devious. So when do the rest of us get to have any fun?” Warrick complained mildly as he picked up a specimen slide on the microscope table. 

Catherine shot him a look that smoldered so hard he wondered why the alarm overhead didn’t go off. “Oh I know a LOT of ways to have fun, Warrick, believe me.” 

For the first time in years, he fumbled, dropping a slide to shatter in tinkly pieces on the tile floor. 

*** *** *** 

“Sara?” Grissom’s tone was striving to be reasonable and failing just a bit. She turned to look at him with a hint of impatience, holding the sack of garbage in her hands as she stood before the can. 

“It’s fine,” She snapped, suddenly tired of his placating manner. They’d been doing okay ever since he’d protested about no reciprocal spanking, but the holding pattern was wearing thin, and Sara wished Grissom would understand that things weren’t going to change until they finished their discussion. With more force than necessary, she lifted the lid of the can and flung the trash in, taking some satisfaction in the thump of it. 

Grissom crossed his arms, watching her. “I’m sorry I forgot to take the trash out. It DOES happen.” 

“I know that. I’m not mad.” _About that._

“Then why are you slamming around like you’re going to level Tokyo ?” 

Despite herself she grinned at that image; Godzilla Sidle, stomping through high rise buildings in a rampage of fire and fury, kicking over bullet trains simply because she could. Abruptly she swung and looked at Grissom, not willing to tackle the real issue just yet. “Why didn’t you tell me your aunt was murdered, here in the garage?” 

He went pale, and for a moment Sara felt a surge of panic as his stunned expression. Grissom’s mouth tightened, and he glared at her. “Who the hell told you THAT?” 

The venom in his tone shook her, but she held her ground, curious and feeling slightly justified in her OWN anger. She wasn’t superstitious, but Sara felt a fact like that should have been brought up when she first moved in. She crossed her own arms, mostly to rub the goosebumps rising up under her sleeves. 

Grissom’s expression closed up as she said nothing. Finally he drew in a breath and half turned from her. “Doreen’s death is ancient history, Sara, and I suggest you drop it before we have a problem here.” 

“Grissom! It’s my house too, and it would have been nice to have been told! I have a right to know!” she heard herself blurt. 

“No you don’t. Doreen’s dead and that’s all that matters,” he replied defensively. 

Had she been calmer, Sara might have tactfully let the subject go without another word, but her pride and her frustration surged up, and she lifted her chin defiantly. “Gee, I guess that’s another thing you get to have the last word on, huh? You make these decrees and I’m supposed to just take it, like some subordinate, some underling not worthy of consulting—!" 

Grissom swung around, suddenly cool; she could see his jaw tighten even as he ran a hand across his beard. “Stop it, Sara. You’re not an underling and you damn well know it. You’re deliberately provoking an issue that’s not open for discussion. In the meantime, we’re standing out here while dinner’s getting cold, so let’s go inside, all right?” 

It wasn’t a pleasant meal, but Sara, having come this far, wasn’t quite ready to let go of her stubborn stance. There was something almost exciting about seeing Grissom sullen, and Sara remembered feeling the same sick sense of frightened exhilaration years ago. She and Tom had found a huge hornet’s nest hanging on the eaves of the Inn, and had taken turns poking it with a fishing pole, slowly getting the tiny winged fiends in an uproar. Their mother had come out to see what was going on and had been stung three times, much to Sara’s everlasting guilt. 

She felt an echo of that guilt now, but more than that, the churning sense of uncertain anticipation that not only made her throat clench a little, but sent hot throbs between her thighs. Grissom ate quietly, not offering much in the way of conversation, limiting himself to the barest responses. By the time they finished the dishes and got ready for bed, Sara found herself wishing she could apologize, but couldn’t figure out what for. Her question had been reasonable—MORE than reasonable, and under that, the earlier unfairness of not having Grissom reciprocate that sensual trust still galled Sara. 

Grissom lay awake in the curtained darkness, waiting for her to come to bed, his jaw aching with tension. His mind couldn’t push away the decades-old casefile that Sara’s sudden accusation brought back to focus, and the hot surge of guilty anger rose up again through him. Cold crime scene photos flashed in his mind, images; a face he’d seen full of life once, of smooth hands that had stroked his hair and patted his back. 

The evidence had said one thing loud and clear, but the official report said something else. 

The weight of that old moral inconsistency still troubled Grissom deeply, and by the time Sara quietly climbed into bed he knew he couldn’t sleep. Waiting until she had pressed her slender back to him and slowly dropped off into slumber, Grissom took a deep breath and rose. He dressed and left the house, driving out into the early morning drizzle of a cold December morning, his mind preoccupied with the painful memory of case # 79-19483353 as he reached the Stratosphere coaster, and pushed down the restraining bar of the X-Scream. 

Alone back at the house, Sara continued to muffle her tears in the pillow as Figaro paced back and forth in distress, waiting for someone to open his can of Fishie Nibbles. 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Clementine St. Croix looked down at the copy of her assignment sheet and tried to figure out the room number on it. The scrawl wasn’t decipherable, and she looked instead at the name next to it: G. Grissom, LVPD Crime Lab Supervisor, night shift. Feeling a little more confident, she walked on down the hall, checking the plaques for a matching name.

She hoped this job would work out. Catching a quick glimpse of her reflection in the smoked glass of one office, Clem blew the bangs out of her eyes and sighed. A short, curvy African American girl with startlingly gold ringlet curls in a frizzy tangle that spilled down to her shoulders looked back at her. A girl with large brown eyes, expressive and bright. A slightly flat broad nose, oval face, and full pink lips—

Lips that never said anything. And never would.

Ironic of course, but she’d dealt with it all her life. She was the victim of a simple birth defect, invisible but devastating at first to her family.

No vocal cords.

She’d never carry their soft Louisiana-tinted Black inflection in her words, never sing or shout or hum. Gradually though, they’d all learned to cope, and by the time she was four, Clementine had more ways to express herself than any of her five brothers and four sisters. She’d made it through school, mainstreamed and carefully coached in printing, sign language and eventually text messaging. Communication was largely a non-issue due to her dogged determination to fit in. She wasn’t deaf, she wasn’t stupid and she wasn’t going to be lumped together with those she considered truly disabled. Or ‘Otha abled’ as her mother patiently tried to instill in her.

Clem rounded a corner and smacked into a lean body moving quickly, bouncing off of it to collide with a wall. Immediately she scrambled up, even as hands reached for hers, pulling with surprising strength.

“Oh man, sorry about that," came a cheerful voice. Clem looked up into an alert, boyish face beaming down at her, and smiled. The man sucked in a shaky breath, going slightly pink as he continued to hold her wrists. He was tall and lanky, with gel-spiked hair and an infectious smile; Clem liked him instantly, feeling he’d be the one to know all the office gossip and current jokes. She could see his pulse beating quickly along his throat under the shirt and lab coat he wore, and her gaze drifted down to his ID badge.

Sanders, Greg CLT Level Two, LVPD, it read.

She felt his curious gaze drop her temp badge; Clem blushed a little as he cocked his head and grinned.

“Clemen-tine—wow, okaaaay, we don’t get a lot of those around here.”

She fished across her chest for her dry erase clipboard and pen, quickly printing out a quick line of neat commentary, then held it up to him.

_Just call me Clem, please. Where can I find Mr. Grissom’s office?_

Her new acquaintance seemed a little startled to see the board, but he pointed to a door only a few yards away.

“I’m Greg, and Grissom’s office is this way—“ he led, shooting a look over his shoulder to encourage her to follow him. Clem did. They reached the indicated door, and she looked in curiously at the metal shelves full of specimens, the tidy science lab feel of the place. Behind the desk, a broad-shouldered man in dark green smock looked up. On his desk was what appeared to be a GI Joe doll, covered in pink paint. Clem felt her mouth twitch at this odd sight, but her companion merely cleared his throat.

“Ah, Grissom?”

The man looked up, his expression faintly annoyed, like that of a cat eyeing a buzzing fly just out of reach.

“Yes, Greg?”

“A Clementine St. Croix to see you," he mispronounced her last name like so many people did; Clem sighed to herself, calling her ‘Saint Crox’. Grissom’s mouth twitched.

“Yes, Ms. San Kwa?” he directed at her, earning himself a full smile. Clem handed him her assignment sheet and the cover letter, waiting as he scanned them. Greg waited as well, apparently having nothing better to do, and Clem glanced at him with a grin.

“It says here that you’re in your senior year at Dominican college, studying Criminal Justice?”

Clem turned back to Grissom and nodded, her hands moving. He watched her fingers intently for a moment, then to her relief, signed back. She nodded. 

Greg watched the exchange keenly, curious but not willing to interrupt. After a few more moments of signing, Grissom looked up at him, irritation far more apparent than it had been a few minutes ago.

“Greg, don’t we employ you to DO things in your lab?”

With a start and a blush the younger man departed, leaving Clem feeling a bit bad for him. Grissom shook his head and glanced back at her, sighing.

“All right, Ms.--"

She scribbled something on her whiteboard and he continued, unfazed. 

“--Clem, we’ll try you out for the semester according to the duties outlined in your work/study assignment. I hope you don’t have a problem with morgues, insects, blood or guns.”

Clem shook her head in a cheerful lie; three of those factors didn’t bother her but one did, the one she was determined to overcome.

*** *** ***

Sara stood facing the round, stout woman before her as Catherine laughed.  
“So Lula, what do you think? Something short and flirty?”

Lula managed a slow grin, her gaze traveling up Sara’s length and back down again as the three of them stood in the small dress shop. Sara felt uncomfortable and embarrassed, but Catherine patted her shoulder reassuringly.

“Nah, something long, since it’s a formal occasion, but with those gams, I think a little peek-a-boo would be the way to go,” the woman rasped out in a voice like a laughing foghorn. Carefully she flicked away the ashes from her cigarette and circled Sara, chuckling.

“Great shoulders, not a bad rack, long waist, butt could be a little rounder, but damn, honey, those legs will be the death of any poor schmuck!” came her assessment. Sara blinked, not sure if she’d been complimented or graded by a meat inspector.

“Lula’s been outfitting showgirls in Vegas since Portia Richmond was a teenager, and if anyone knows what you’ll look good in, it’s her,” Catherine assured her. “She got me through my waitressing days, my wedding, and all those events Sam takes me to.” Sara looked fascinated as Lula whipped out a measuring tape.

“So talk to me honey, what colors do you prefer? ‘Cause I’ll tell you, if you say basic black I may have to climb a ladder and throttle you.”

“Something—hot. A deep pink, or a red!” Catherine suggested cheerfully. Sara tried to protest, but Lulu made a deep grunt of agreement.

“Look, Catherine, I’m just as happy to pass," she tried to mutter, the words painfully sincere. The thought of going out to party was completely unappealing, and the added horror of trying to act as if she was having a good time was overwhelming. The only thing she longed for was a chance to slip back to her apartment and hole up for a while.

It wasn’t that Grissom was angry; rather, it was as if he wasn’t aware of her; off in his own mental version of Siberia. At the house for the last two days he went through the motions of daily life, and answered her in monosyllables, always looking faintly surprised when she spoke to him. Sara had tried ignoring him and pleading with him, but Grissom remained abstract, too pre-occupied with whatever was on his mind to register her attempts. It was maddening.

“You’d look hot in a nice brick red, Honey. And I think I’ve got just the number for you to make any guy sweat through his tongue. Hold on," Lula rolled away across the shop, leaving Sara and Catherine waiting. Sara turned to her, brows drawn together.

“Look, New Year’s Eve parties aren’t my thing. Too many people trying to pretend they’re having a good time, getting drunk, getting rowdy and wild—"

“Getting jealous. That’s what _I_ want to see.” Catherine murmured. Sara paused, not missing the speculative tone in the other woman’s voice. She held her breath as Catherine went on, not looking at her as she spoke.  
“I want to see Grissom worked up a little. Hot under the collar, Sara. He’s got it bad for you, that’s kind of obvious, but I don’t think he’s really seen you in the spotlight.”

Sara held her tongue, only too aware of how many different ways Grissom HAD seen her, but the seed of Catherine’s words quickly took root. Had Grissom ever been jealous? Pondering over this new consideration, Sara missed Lula’s return and Catherine’s gasp. Only when she looked up did she notice the dress the round little lady was holding up.

“G’wan, try it on while Catherine and I wait. I’ve got a ten spot riding that it’s gonna be a knockout.”

With a wry shake of her head, Sara took the dress and disappeared into the dressing booth. She peeled out of her sweater and jeans, shedding her thick socks and boots as well, then reached for the dress, pulling it carefully over her head and easing it on. There was a side zipper, and a few fastenings on the front; when Sara was finished she checked her reflection in the full-length mirror.

Lula had been right; not only was brick red a great color on her, but the dress also did a lot for her shape. It was a sleeveless Chinese cheongsam in dark red brocaded silk with a standing mandarin collar and black frog fastenings across the chest. The top half fitted snugly, accentuating her natural curves. Sara stepped forward and gave a grin; each side of the long floor-length skirt was slit all the way up to the top of her thighs, almost to her hips. The hem was a little long, but Sara knew with the right high heels it would be fine.

She felt like a glamorous concubine, slinky and yet formal as she slowly turned and checked the back view. The dress had a low back, exposing her spine. Sara laughed breathlessly, and a sudden surge of reckless delight filled her. The only way Grissom wouldn’t notice THIS dress would be if he were wearing a toe tag.

“Are you coming out?” came Catherine’s slightly impatient call. Sara took a breath, flicked the curtain open and sailed out into the shop.

“Holy shit!” came Lula’s admiring blurt. Catherine rocked back, blinking, her grin from ear to ear as she circled Sara.  
“Forget about Grissom, I’M jealous!” she laughingly confessed, her dimples flashing. Sara returned the smile, grateful for the moment of feminine camaraderie and smoothed her hands down her hips.

“It’s got . . . ventilation,” she informed her partner. Catherine caught a glimpse of the slits up the side and hooted happily.

“Oh yeah, definitely a selling point. Put on a pair of thigh highs and stiletto heels under that and you could have the majority of the night shift crawling over broken glass for you. And Grissom---"

Sara said nothing, but Catherine’s exuberant pleasure was contagious, and she grinned. Lula lit up another cigarette, her own smile sweet and contented.

“I can let you have that one at a good price, it’s pretty old. I bought it from a dressmaker who claimed it was handmade for Julie Newmar back in the late sixties.”

“How much?” both Catherine and Sara blurted at the same time. Lula laughed, a deep rolling sound. She took in the sight of Sara once more, her gaze lingering on her face.

“For you honey, one eighty, and that includes a garment bag and pressing. You can pick it up in a few hours if you’ve got cash.”

*** *** ***

Grissom found her in the drying room, flicking through the rack of clothing that held the paint-splattered work shirt. Under the heat lamp lighting she looked serious and austerely beautiful, her concentration focused on the pink paint splotches down one sleeve. She glanced up at him when he entered, a tiny flicker of emotions crossing her face before she settled on a politely neutral expression.

“Sara, I need to talk to you,” he began calmly. She flinched a bit, but Grissom motioned for her to follow him to the table, and carefully laid an old file on it. He spoke in a low voice, measuring his words.

“I want you to look at this and tell me what you see. Give me your initial impressions from the photos and the first report.” Seeing her wary look, he added in a lower more personal tone, “please.”

Sara looked. After the first two photos, a little chill ran up her spine, and she knew, without a doubt that she was looking at the body of Doreen Sullivan. She lay face down on the cement floor of the garage, the pool of blood around her head a black puddle, one arm under her body, the other crumpled next to her. Other things Sara noted included a boot print next to the body, and clutter just beyond it: a bucket and mop, some rags. Sara gave a painful little sigh.

The report was terse: Police were in pursuit of Raoul Nieto, a known felon wanted for questioning. The suspect entered the garage of 10867 Caliente Way and resisted all attempts by officers to peacefully extract him, firing several shots through the windows. When officers finally broke through the main door, further gunfire was exchanged, and Raoul Nieto died after being shot in the throat by Lieutenant Andre W. Nickleson. The body of Doreen Sullivan the homeowner was discovered in the garage as well.

Sara frowned. She glanced at the photos, then pawed through the evidence list, looking carefully.

“So Raoul had two guns—a colt .45 and a .22. Doesn’t that seem a little weird? Most lowlifes only pack one weapon when they’re on the move, unless they’re planning a heist.”

Grissom gave a slow nod. Sara looked again at one of the photos. She drew in a breath.

“This bugs me. The position of the body. The mop and bucket. The rags, Grissom. Right next to her—" she looked up at him, insight hitting her hard in the stomach. “This wasn’t a murder, it’s a suicide.”

Grissom looked at her, not saying a word, his eyes bright and haunted. Sara blinked a little, and flipped a page until she found the signature line for the Scene assessment. G. Grissom.

“Grissom, you were personally involved, that’s a major breech of protocol!” came her shocked mutter. She looked up at him, eyes wide, her entire lanky frame tense as she waited for some explanation of this insane infraction of the rules. On the table, the photos and reports lay strewn in haphazard fashion. 

Grissom drew in a harsh sigh.

“Doreen had ovarian cancer. I moved out to Las Vegas partially because I was recruited and knew the area, but also because Mom and I knew I could be closer to Doreen. You have to understand chemotherapy in those days was pretty harsh, Sara. A last resort. Doreen was fading fast. I knew within a few minutes of looking at that scene that she’d decided to end it all. The death would be quick, and garage would be easy to clean, especially with the supplies so thoughtfully placed right there. That was pretty typical of my aunt. Nieto came in only an hour after she’d shot herself, and picked up her .22. Given his record, it wasn’t hard for most people to believe he’d killed Doreen during the standoff in the garage.”

“But it’s not the truth,” Sara pointed out stubbornly. Her stomach ached with tension, with this strange loss of faith in Grissom. The man and mentor who adhered so ruthlessly to the truth, who made integrity the backbone of his profession had lied on a report. It seemed—incomprehensible. She risked a look at his face, stunned by the aching vulnerability there. It was as if she could look through the years and see a younger tormented man.

“I lied,” he agreed through clenched teeth. “I lied for the sake of my mother’s heart and my aunt’s immortal soul, Sara. If the price of their peace is that I carry this sin to my own grave—I will.”

“I don’t . . . understand,” Sara whispered. She reached out her hand, laying it over his in a slow, tender caress; Grissom gripped it with unexpected tightness, desperation in his clasp as he spoke again.

“Sara, in the Catholic church, suicide is a sin. Twenty years ago, Doreen would have been denied a funeral mass and burial in the plot she’d paid for at Holy Trinity. If my mother knew her little sister had killed herself it would have broken her heart. Raoul was already dead, so by calling it murder I deliberately brought a sense of finality to Doreen’s death for my mother. I’ve wrestled with this lie for years, Sara. Years. It’s the primary reason why I push so hard now—"

“--For the evidence to speak,” she finished slowly. “For us to remember the victims.”

He nodded, his big shoulders tensing under his lab coat as his fingers tightened in hers. Close to tears, Sara bit her lips. She turned, brushing her free hand over the ancient case file, sweeping the contents back into it and laying her palm flat on it, as if to pin it shut.

“I love you SO much right now, right in this single, lonely second," she whispered brokenly. Grissom shifted closer, not letting go of the lifeline her hand made in his. He drew in a shaky breath.

“The other night--when you asked that question while practically standing on the spot—I couldn’t _deal_ with it, Sara. It all came slamming back. So I had to get out and regroup a little. But I want you to know that I’d already decided to tell you the truth as soon as . . .”

“As soon as . . .?” she prompted, looking up at him. Grissom’s face flushed, his eyes locking on hers.

“. . . As soon as I could deal with your contempt. Doreen’s case makes me a hypocrite, Sara. Everything I’ve ever taught you about objectivity and staying emotionally clear of cases. All of it--"

Abruptly Sara turned, cupping his face, her thumbs stroking his jaw line in soothing circles as she breathed up into his features.

“Is still valid, Grissom. I love you; that’s not going to change. You’re a flesh and blood man who risked his integrity and conscience for the two women who raised him—can’t ask for much more nobility than that.”

He sighed, a long slow exhale of uncoiling tension, of repressed anger and frustration. For a long lovely moment they stood in the gloom of the Drying room, their faces inches apart, their entire intimate focus on each other.

“So," Sara sighed. He smirked back a little and she thrilled to see it, that return to normality.

“So.”

“Welcome back," she smiled, and leaned up to kiss him. Grissom resisted for a fraction of a second, but his body rebelled and he scooped her up, kissing her thoroughly, savoring the flavor and pressure and sweetness he’d missed for the last five days.

After a few more kisses, Sara wriggled free, laughing softly. She shot him an impish look as she let him go.  
“So now, do I get my way?”

Confused, Grissom let her go, cocking his head. Sara gathered the file and handed it to him.

“About the OTHER thing we’ve been fighting about,” came her low tone. Grissom pulled away and shook his head.

“Oh. That. We’re not fighting, Sara. You can only fight if the issue’s still open to debate, and that one isn’t. I’m not going to spank you.”

She shifted her weight and unconsciously took a slightly belligerent stance as she remembered the garment bag in the back of her car. Flashing Grissom a bright, artificial smile, she made a noncommittal sound. He looked at her warily.

“Sara—!"

“Hand me that magnifying glass, will you?” she interrupted, turning her attention back to the pink-stained shirt, and gathering her professionalism around her again defensively. Grissom watched her for a minute longer, hesitating. He cleared his throat and Sara looked at him as if she’d forgotten he was standing there.

“So. You found a dress?” Grissom asked in a desperately casual voice. She gave a nod, and turned the shirt, staying cool, but gratified at his question.

“Yeah. I’m going to have to dig in my apartment closet for the shoes that will go with it, so I’ll meet up with you and the guys at the hotel, if that’s okay.”  
Her tone made it clear that despite whatever he replied that this was the way things would be, and as Grissom left the drying room with Case File 79-19483353 tucked under his arm, he wondered why he didn’t feel entirely comfortable with Sara’s indifferent demeanor.

*** *** ***

“Hey Nick . . .” Warrick called across the fifteen feet that separated them. The main ballroom of the Tangiers was beginning to get crowded, and the added confusion of the band at the far end playing a jazzy rendition of A Train made talking difficult. Nick caught sight of Warrick and Catherine on the edge of a group standing between the tables and the dance floor, and made a beeline towards them. Catherine pretended to fan herself at the sight of him in his tux.

“Where were you two when I needed a prom date? Don’t answer that," she warned, catching Nick’s mischievous look and Warrick’s amused one. She looked striking in a black, low cut gown flecked with gold glitter. The gold sandals brought her up a few inches, and Warrick liked being able to look in her eyes. Nick glanced around, ruining the lines of his tux by shoving his hands deep in his pockets.

“So, pretty big turnout for this, but I can see where the boundaries between the two groups are drawn. Anybody else here yet?”

“Some of the Day shift are around, along with Ecklie and Cavello. I saw Brass talking with Archie over by the other side, and I think Greg’s here too,” Warrick dutifully reported. The band had taken a break, and as they did the conversation levels rose all over the room. Catherine snagged a champagne flute from a passing waiter.

“And Grissom?”

“He’s here, sulking over by the curtains,” Catherine laughed. “Come on, let’s go see if we can offer him the grim comfort of company for a while.”

Grissom was indeed sulking, looking out over the glittering lights of Las Vegas with an utterly gloomy expression.  
Catherine approved of how distinguished and commandingly handsome he was in his tux, his silk vest patterned in a grey and black check that matched his bow tie. He looked at his watch.

“Two and a half hours. I’ve been standing at this damn window for a hundred and fifty minutes,” he sighed.  
Catherine noted that the view included the main entrance to the Tangiers, and suspected it was Grissom’s way of checking on arrivals, but she merely handed him a glass of champagne to distract him.

“Sheesh, Grissom, lighten up! It’s a par-tee. We’re supposed to have fun at them, theoretically.”

“Hours of banal small talk over pointless and boring topics while we wait for a single moment in time to either childishly blow noisemakers or kiss someone. What an utter waste of an evening,” he announced. Warrick smirked while Nick ran a hand through his hair.

“I dunno—that last part could be worth the rest of the night, Gris. Depends on your circumstances and charm.”

The look Nick got in return was enough to make Catherine and Warrick laugh out loud. They were still laughing when Grissom’s expression changed. He lifted his head, his gaze riveted to the other side of the room, to the main doors. 

Curious, Catherine and Nick followed his line of sight, along with Warrick. A little murmuring rumble of appreciation winnowed through the crowd, and stepping forward towards them, Sara smiled at her co-workers.

“Hi,” she breathed, her dimples deep. Her glossy dark hair was up in a sleek twist, held in place by two lacquered chopsticks, and soft little tendrils dangled down. Her lipstick matched her outfit, and her tiny jade earrings seemed to glow in the light.

And she was wearing THE dress.

“Ohhhhhhh—“ Warrick managed, his voice dropping an octave. Nick shook his head a little.

“Damn! Sara, you look . . .” he trailed off, unable to finish his comment. Both of them stood gazing at her with the rapt expressions of men who had just realized how amazingly beautiful Sara was. Catherine discreetly shot a peek at Grissom, anxious to see the effect of the dress in his eyes.

He was frozen to the spot, his eyes a bright blue, his mouth in a thin line. Catherine noted that the champagne flute was twitching in his hand, the wine sloshing along the inside and foaming. Carefully she took it from him, but Grissom never even glanced at her.

“You look nice,” he told Sara in a flat little voice. She gave her usual little shrug and turned, the sleek line of her gorgeous leg suddenly exposed through the long slit of the dress. Catherine noted in fascination that Grissom’s eyes instantly narrowed.

“Well, I’m off to mingle with the beautiful people, guys—don’t wait up,” Sara cheerfully sang out and sailed away, the bare expanse of her back gleaming in the muted lighting of the ball room. A collective groan seemed to escape from the three men watching her go; Nick and Warrick shook themselves free of the spell and wandered off. 

Catherine, however, stayed behind, looking up at Grissom quietly. She could smell something rising off of him, something under his Old Spice and clean wool scent.

Jealousy.

Catherine remembered the smell of it well; several of her lovers had the same scent during her dancing days. Eddie wore it off and on throughout their marriage. The sharp musky hint of it made her quiver slightly, even though she knew this dark emotion wasn’t about her, didn’t involve her this time.

“You okay?” she asked in the silence. 

Grissom started, and looked at her, his gaze returning to something striving to be normal.

“Hmmm?”

“Never mind.”

*** *** ***

Sara was aware of being . . . pursued. It was a lovely feeling, one she hadn’t felt in a while. The hum of low voices, the admiring glances of men, both those she knew and didn’t know, those were all nice, but the added frisson of knowing Grissom was always somewhere nearby added a hint of danger to the night. She circulated, sharing a laugh or two with Jacqui, swapping comments with an uncomfortable Hodges and finally ending up next to a dark-suited Brass near a tray of canapés. He gave her the once over with flattering slowness.

“Man—that’s a heck of an outfit, Sara.”  
She preened a bit, for show, glad in the security of his company. Sara knew where she stood with Brass, appreciated his straightforward friendship. He held out a canapé.

“So, is the new year going to be any different from the old one for you?” Sara asked softly, taking the proffered treat. Brass’s expression shifted to something soft and almost shy; he gave a little shrug.

“Actually, yes. I’m not staying until midnight this time. I’ve got someone I’m going to be with for it.”

“Really?” Sara smiled with delight. “So why didn’t she come here with you?”

Brass’s mouth twitched as he fought a smile. He glanced around the room, then back to Sara, leaning closer.

“Let’s just say in her line of work, she’s seen about a third of the people in this room at their most vulnerable and leave it at that.”

Sara blinked; she didn’t think Brass was the type to date a psychiatrist. He took another canapé and chuckled.

“You know you’re driving Grissom nuts, don’t you? He’s practically on stake out about ten feet behind your left shoulder.”

“Good,” she responded shortly. The band struck up Stardust, and Sara drew in a breath. “Hey—wanna dance?”

Brass blinked and nodded with flattering rapidity; he held out his arm to Sara and they walked out to the dance floor amid thirty or so other couples already there. Sara was amused to see Jacqui in the arms of sheriff Atwater; judging by the look in his eyes and from the grip he had on her, they seemed to know each other very well. Brass gave a soft sigh, taking Sara into his arms and smoothly leading.

“So . . . why are you trying to give your new roommate fits, Sara? Did he leave the toilet seat up? Forget to add fabric softener?”

Sara tensed, but one look in his patient blue eyes and she knew the jig was up. She managed an off-center smirk as they danced.

“None of the above. Let’s just say I’m practicing physics. Cause and effect. I have a certain effect I want.”

“So you’re instigating the cause—risky maneuver you know. It could backfire with an oddball like Grissom.”

“I’m monitoring the experiment,” she assured him gently. Sara could see Grissom standing on the edge of the dance floor, watching them intently as they sailed past on the strains of music. She looked away, letting Brass lead, enjoying the moment as best she could.

A moment later, someone cut in; a tall young policeman Sara dimly remembered from a case in Henderson. Brass gallantly permitted it, and Sara found herself dancing with him. His palms were sweaty. After that, a blushing Archie asked if she’d do him the honors as the band slowly began to play String of Pearls.

From that point, she danced almost nonstop. Warrick made her laugh when he dipped her, his confident style a tribute to patient lessons from his aunt, he confessed. Nick was a little mechanical, a box stepper but still a lot of fun as he gossiped to her about Greg’s inability to land a single dance with anyone so far. Hodges was a good partner, but utterly silent, concentrating as if the whole process were like a driver’s test.

By the time an hour had passed, Sara felt warm and oddly happy, despite her sore feet. Clearly the dress was a hit, given the rush she’d been receiving throughout the night. The only irritating point was that Grissom didn’t seem care; he stayed on the periphery of her good time, watching but not doing much else. As an experiment in physics and manipulation the whole thing seemed a bust, and Sara was almost ready to give it up when she caught sight of his hands.

She knew Grissom’s hands very well, having held them, kissed them, caressed and having been caressed by them. A great deal of his unspoken emotion showed through his hands, in their deliberate gestures and actions.

At the moment Grissom’s hands were flexing. Fascinated, Sara watched him tighten and straighten his strong fingers in slow, absent rhythm as if trying to calm himself. That little sign of his eroding control gave her new hope, and she made her way through the crowd to him, keeping her eyes on his face.

“Not having a good time?” came her low question. He stared at her, blinking slowly. Someone brushed behind Sara and she stepped forward, nearly bumping into Grissom. This close to the man it was impossible to miss the scent of hungry desire that rose from him. Playfully, Sara reached to caress the satin of his lapels.

“I’m angry,” he replied in a dry, almost formal way.

She looked up at him, letting her eyes half close as she spoke. “Why would that be, Grissom? Because I look great? Because I’m having a good time, for once? Because we haven’t made love in almost a week and a half?”

“YES,” He bit off with a growl. His flexing hands rose up uncertainly, wanting to settle on her hips and hovering instead, aware of the crush of the crowd around them. 

Sara laughed up at him. “That’s difficult. When you want things, but your partner isn’t cluing in, I mean. When you’re suddenly aware that you might have to take certain—reckless—measures to get your point across.”

A strange wash of emotion crossed Grissom’s face; he blinked. Focusing on Sara, a light dawned in his blue eyes and seeing it, she gave a little sigh. “Like my dress?”

He nodded. She cocked her head and ran her own hands down the hips, smoothing the fabric.

“Thanks. It feels pretty nice too, considering it’s the only piece of clothing I’m wearing tonight.”

Grissom sucked in a breath, but it was too late; Sara patted his arm and added huskily, “You won’t tell anybody, right?” and sauntered away, hips swinging smoothly, drawing admiring glances from several directions.

He knew what he had to do. With a sensual clarity he hadn’t felt since the moment he first looped stockings around Sara’s slender wrists, Grissom knew perfectly well now what needed to happen. What was fated to happen.  
And soon.

*** *** ***

“The night shift are all total freak cases, I’m telling you,” came the annoying buzz from in front of him. Grissom tried to block out the sound, and concentrate on filling out the card. He stood in the line at the registration booth outside the main ballroom, calmly joining the last-minute crowd of partiers taking advantage of the overnight package deal the Tangiers was offering. The voice came again.

“Brown’s a gambling addict of course, story is out he’d bet on the life of his partners—and has. That redhead is an ex-hooker. She claims she was a stripper, but we all know what that means in THIS town. And word is that the hottie in the geisha dress is actually a lesbian who’s got a vigilante thing going for wife-beaters. I’m telling you the nightshift is all one twisted sideshow.”

Grissom looked over at the little round man in line ahead of him who was making this announcement to the fascinated lady at his side. Seeing Grissom look up, the round man nodded knowingly.

“You know what I mean, right buddy? And it’s common knowledge that the one in charge of that looney bin, that bug specialist is the worst of the bunch. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out he’s got a woman in a pit somewhere—I mean, come on! Anybody who digs bugs and death scenes has got to be torqued to a major degree, right?”

“Two women,” Grissom commented softly. The round man looked at him. “And it’s a basement, not a pit. I find it’s much easier to lure them down there. Saves me trouble.”

“W-what?”

“I mean, why do them one at a time when pairs are so much more gratifying to one’s sadistic ego?”

The round man’s face went the color of goat cheese as recognition dawned on him; he took a step back; Grissom smirked. At the table, the Tangiers clerk cleared her throat.

“Next?”

The round man hopped out of line with alacrity, backing away without saying another word. Smoothly, Grissom turned his registration form and American Express card in to the clerk then received a card key for hotel room 2024.

He paused, looking at the number, recognizing it before tucking it into his inside jacket pocket. Stepping back into the ballroom, he spotted Sara immediately despite of the semi-gloom of the place. She stood chatting with David and Greg, both of them mooning over her in the way of shy men everywhere. In a flirtatious gesture she reached out to touch Greg’s nose.  
Something deep and feral lurched through Grissom’s chest.

Striding forward, he moved straight through the crowds until he loomed before her. Startled, Sara looked up at him. He grabbed her wrist, wordlessly and led her off to the dance floor without giving her a chance to say anything to the either man.

Flustered, Sara allowed herself to be towed out into the press of bodies on the floor, then pulled into Grissom’s arms. They settled possessively around her, one flat palm pressed along her bare spine, the other cupping her right hand in a tight grip. For the first time she felt a spike of fear as she studied his face. The music was fading as the band ended their tune and began another one.

“That was rude.”

“I don’t give a damn,” he responded flatly. Grissom’s hand pressed her closer, and Sara felt the heat of his body seeping through her silk dress. He smelled of clean perspiration and arousal, a personal cologne that left her weak with desire. Goose bumps broke out along her arms, her nipples hardened as she brushed against his chest.

“Well I DO. What gives you the right to just drag me off like that?” she tried to sound cool and amused, but her voice betrayed her with a slightly squeaky tone to it. Grissom’s smile was grim.

“You did. You gave me the right from the minute I pinned you down and made you open your thighs for me, Sara. You are MINE, and no one else’s, is that clear?”

She trembled. His words were soft and his tone light, but there was a core of heat in them that matched the hard throb of him against her thigh. Slowly the music rose and she recognized the song. Grissom brought her close, his lips near her ear.

“Night and day, you are the one . . .” he sang faintly, his fingers caressing hers. On her back, his other hand slid lower, unseen in the crowd, but Sara felt it stroke her hungrily. She quivered and pressed harder against him.

They danced. Sara knew it would be the sort of dreamy memory that would haunt her years later as a moment of sensual torment. The feel of Grissom in the semi-darkness, the anticipation building as he sang and caressed her, knowing the song wouldn’t last forever and wishing it would. Her hands clung to his back, molding against his strong shoulder blades as he guided her around the dance floor, gradually steering her towards one of the side exits, their journey a subtle trip across the floor. The song ended and the bandleader called out inanities to the crowd, pointing out that midnight was only forty minutes away.

In the darkness near the side exit, Grissom shifted his hold of Sara’s hand, and gripped her wrist again, lightly. He twisted her hand until it was face up. Something stroked her palm; a hotel card key. Grissom leaned forward speaking with soft authority.

“Get your purse. We’re going upstairs, Sara. I’m going to take you across my knee and spank you for everything you’ve put me through tonight. Then I’m going to bury myself in you until you’re hoarse from screaming my name. Is that clear?”

She looked at him, eyes wide, feeling her body flush hard in quick passionate response, the wet heat between her thighs growing. Sara’s fingers closed around the card key. Grissom gave a harsh sigh as they slipped out the door.  
The corridors were crowded with party guests; seeing them, Sara turned towards Grissom. He gestured to one elevator and then the other. Wordlessly she slipped in to her indicated one. 

Around her the crush of passengers chattered away, but it was just noise to her now, her attention was taken up internally, in the hot memory of Grissom’s words echoing in her head.  
The car rose higher, passing the seventeenth floor, letting the last three guests off. Sara pressed the button for the twentieth and pressed her palms against the metal doors, trying to steady herself. When the car slowed, she tottered out and into the hallway. Grissom was leaning with his back against the opposite wall waiting for her. Sara froze, but he shifted, rising up and moving towards her, crowding close, backing her up until her naked spine pressed on the gilt wallpaper of the hall.

“Bad girl,” he commented, his lips brushing hers as he spoke. Sara squirmed, aware that the elevators could open at any moment; that they were in a semi-public place. She nodded quickly. Grissom sighed. His hands moved faster than she realized, into the slits of the dress and up each of her thighs. Sara gave a tiny gasp, but it was swallowed away by his almost-kiss as his big palms glided up to cup her bare hips. Grissom gave a grunt against her mouth.  
“Sara--!”

She laughed a little, arching as his hands slid and touched her semi-naked body with brazen delight, his caresses rougher than usual. Grissom gripped her naked ass under the back flap of the dress and growled in her ear, hot and deep.

“Very. Bad.”

“I’m sorry,” she breathed back insincerely, trying to kiss him. Grissom pulled away and straightened up, blue eyes fierce. Sara heard the elevator a moment later and understood. He led the way down the hall, passing the doors until he reached 2024. Sara followed.

The room was large, done in vaguely Moroccan style with mosaic art and inlaid furniture heavy in greens and golds. Sara got the impression of a few armless chairs, an entertainment armoire and a pair of beds with heavy spreads. Grissom tugged his jacket off, and yanked at his tie. Sara trailed in cautiously, her pulse sounding loud at her temples. Grissom dropped himself in one of the ornate chairs and looked at her; the only light came from the tiny bedside lamp, so the room was filled with shadows.

Grissom spoke in a voice heavy with controlled passion. “Come here, Acushla. Tell me why you deserve this.”

Sara stepped forward. She set her clutch down on the table, then looked at Grissom as he unbuttoned his vest and set it aside. His dress shirt gleamed white, and the suspenders made black stripes along the sides of his broad chest. He looked so good, so unabashedly sexy that Sara sucked in a shuddery breath.

“I . . ." she stopped. Grissom prompted her.

“You chose to wear something that you knew would provoke this.”

She nodded, relaxing a little. Grissom’s expression wasn’t smiling, but his voice was. Sara cleared her throat and spoke softly.

“Yes. I took off my panties and left them in the car knowing that was—a risk.”

He shook his head, almost sorrowfully as he looked her up and down. Even though he was sitting, Sara felt his commanding presence. The heat along her skin rose as Grissom softly whistled.  
“And . . . you flirted.”

She nodded; yes there was that, an undeniable fact. She’d flirted quite a bit.

“Sara, that was . . . unacceptable. You have no idea, no concept of how insane you drove me tonight. So beautiful and defiant, so very, very bad.” His voice dropped in a dangerously low whisper, “Come here."

It caressed Sara’s hearing, and she trembled a bit, moving forward before she could even think about it. Grissom reached up, sliding his palm up her exposed thigh, his touch shockingly warm against her cool skin. Sara willed herself to hold still, even as his hand made the lingering trip up her leg.  
“Warrick, Nick, Hodges, David, Greg and Brass—six men you flirted with, sweetheart. Six swats to remind you whom you belong to. Who IS that, Sara?"

Under the front flap of her dress, his fingers slid over her hipbone, stroking the toned flesh, the soft fluff between her legs. Sara widened her stance, hungry for his touch as she murmured, “You. You belong to me, and I to you.”

“Yes.”

Grissom let his hand shift to her hip once more, then slid it around to the back of the dress.

“Lift it, Sara.”

She did, reaching back to pull the rear panel of the cheongsam up almost to her waist, leaving the back of her long legs and rounded ass bare in the dim light. For the first time, Grissom managed a tender look at her.  
“Down.”

Sara obediently draped herself across his thighs. The moment had an odd quality, dreamy and sensual, but tinged with fear, too; under her stomach, she felt the warmth of his body, the hard muscles supporting her. Grissom dropped his left hand down between her slender shoulder blades, pinning her securely while his right hand flicked the dress up higher, exposing Sara’s body almost to the middle of her slim back. Lightly his hand stroked her satiny flesh, making her quiver as his fingertips teased.

“Oh, I think I can understand this entire power play MUCH better now,” he told her, almost chattily. Sara tried to turn and glare at him, but the precarious balance of her torso over his knees, not to mention his hand between her shoulder blades held her down. At the first hint of struggle, he pressed harder and made an ‘ah-ah’ sound.

“Just spank me already!” Sara hissed impatiently, her sandals barely touching the floor. Grissom sighed.

“Patience, sweetheart. Let me savor the moment. It’s nearly midnight and I’m going to have you under me from one year to the next—"

And his hand came down. Sara flinched, stunned at the sudden heat, the unexpected sizzle of it. She tensed, her hands trying to reach back. Grissom anticipated her move through and caught her wrists in his left hand, pinning them to the small of her back. He smacked again, harder, making her wriggle.

“Ow!”

“Shhhhh—“ he crooned. Sara tried to catch her breath, shocked at how much it stung, at how the heat radiated through her bottom, burning almost as much as her sense of humiliation. Tears prickled but she fought them and tensed again, waiting for the next blow. It came, slower this time, but loud and firm against the rounded globes of her ass. One of the chopsticks fell out of her hair, tumbling to the floor. As she writhed, she felt the hard prod of Grissom’s cock through the seam of his slacks, rubbing against her lower stomach.

Throbbing. Like she was.

That changed everything in one amazing moment.

Sara rolled her hips just as Grissom spanked her a third time, his blow landing lower, making a soft slapping sound against her flushed flesh. A charge of energy ran through her slender frame, and she rolled again, pressing against his eager prick, stroking it with a tiny rocking of her hips even as Grissom dropped his hand on her ass once more. Sara could smell the heat, could practically taste the erotic tension twanging in the air of the room. She swallowed hard as molten, syrupy lust flowed between her damp thighs.

“Oh Sara . . .” came Grissom’s ragged whisper, a raspy blend of thrill and fear. She arched her back and struggled a little, for show. He grunted, breathing hard, his hand landing two more swift smacks, one on each reddened cheek. Sara tightened every muscle in her body, aware that she was down to the last spank.

Grissom hesitated for a long, shuddering, edge-of-the-drop moment, then slapped her bottom one last time, straining to hold her, fighting his animal lust that jutted against her body. Sara yanked her hands free of his grip and stood on shaky legs, tugging at her dress, yanking it up and over her head in rash, furious wriggles. Grissom rose, helping her, and the minute she was free, Sara grabbed him around his ribcage, yanking him to her with lithe ferocity. The dress lay on the floor; forgotten as she slammed her mouth on his, tongue slithering into his parting lips.

“Mmmmingh!” came her squeaky growl, somehow all the sexier for the frustration driving it. Grissom didn’t dare laugh, couldn’t laugh as Sara ate his tongue, driving him back against the wall of the room. They hit it so hard the pictures rattled, lost in wet deep desperate kisses that mingled together in raking teeth and sucking lips. Sara’s fingers fumbled with his fly, yanked it open as Grissom cupped her burning ass and they rolled along the wall. A picture tumbled off with a wooden thump on the carpet.

Sara’s fingers wrapped as much as they could around Grissom’s turgid cock, and she braced herself against the wall, dimly glad she was still in her heels. 

Catching on, Grissom scooped a forearm under one thigh, opening her legs and driving forward. The lovely liquid squeeze of his thick cock slickly impaling her made Grissom growl low in his chest. With a soft wail of delight, Sara let her head rap against the wall and wrapped one leg around his hip.

“Fuck me, Gil, fuck me hard—“ came her throaty order, whispered around his tongue. He bucked his hips, pinning her, sliding his other hand under her other thigh. Sara moaned wildly. Her hands tugged his dress shirt open, and the silver chain around his neck sparkled in the dim light, the medal bouncing gently between his pecs as he thrust into Sara fiercely.

“Fucking Christ! Mine, your HOT little ass is mine from now ON, Sara!” came his panting breath in her ear. She clutched him, nodding, taking in the scorching thick thrusts, all too aware of the dizzy wave of lust surging in a wet crescendo between her hips, unstoppable now--

Mewling, clawing his shoulders with wild pleasure Sara felt her body clench around Grissom from the inside out, clinging to him in pulsating throbs of erotic power as she came. He thrust steadily, drawing her mindless bliss on and on, until a few moments later she softened, sagging forward against him. Grissom pressed his hungry mouth against her neck, his rhythm quickening.  
But Sara shook her head, pushing him away with weak shoves. Startled, Grissom pulled away. She motioned to the bed over his shoulder, and he locked his arms around her, swinging her light frame with his, toppling onto the mattress in a few steps.

“No, _mine_ —" came her languid insistence. Sara moved like a panther, rolling away from Grissom and pushing him back. Startled, he tried to sit up, but she stretched out on top of him, beautiful in her wild nudity, whisky brown eyes glittering.

She pinned him down. Her hands encircled his strong wrists, holding them against the mattress, and with slow, teasing wriggles, Sara lowered herself onto his impatient cock, which rose up, slick, angry and red from his open fly.

“Your cock is mine, Grissom. Mine to ride, mine to make come. You DO want to come, don’t you?” she breathed in his startled face. Gritting his teeth to bite back his groan he nodded, tensing as Sara sheathed herself on him once again and began to pump. Slowly.

Grissom gasped and grunted and cursed, well aware that he could break her grip on his wrists, but choosing not to. Sara pleasured herself on him, moving with increasing speed, her husky voice spilling wild words of love and lust as she drove him to the brink.

“Come on, come on oh yesss, deeper!” Sara urged, pumping herself in sweet grinding hip thrusts against him. Grissom tensed, the tendons standing out along his neck, his spine arching off the bed as he drove harder into her, blind with pleasure in his moment of boiling glorious release. Sara felt herself bucked hard in a staccato of thrusts, clinging to him as he dropped back onto the mattress with a heavy creak of springs.

They lay exhausted for a long, long time, listening to the sounds of firecrackers and noisemakers as the New Year rolled in through Las Vegas, outside and just beyond their own private world.

*** *** ***

A few deep hours later, Sara woke in darkness. For a moment she wondered where she was, how she’d ended up under the sheets on a strange bed. The reassuring weight of Grissom’s arm around her waist let her relax though, and she drew in a happy breath as a rush of hot memory came back to her. She rolled over, snuggling in closer, burying her face in the warm hollow under Grissom’s beard, settling into one of the familiar positions they slept in. His arm tightened around her sleepily. Possessively.

“Grissom?”

“Mmmm?” a half-awake tone of indulgence. The sound of a tiger nuzzling his mate.

“I didn’t make a promise to my dad,” Sara murmured, her eyes closed as she cuddled closer to his big naked body in the sheets of the Tangiers.

“Mmmmm,” he agreed.

“So--will you . . . . marry me, Grissom?” she gulped.

“Yes.” Warm and deep, swift.  
Sure.

Sara shivered.“Wh-really? You will?”

"Yes. Go back to sleep, Acushla.”

And Sara did, with a happy sigh.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

The Tangiers room service menu was small, but tempting, and Sara thought the strawberry waffles sounded perfect. Behind her, Grissom finished tucking in his shirt and tugged his suspenders into place, then kissed her bare shoulder as he leaned over the bed and glanced at the menu himself.  
“Those sound good. And coffee,” he urged, “They have some really nice blends here. Keys?”

Sara absently fished into her clutch and pulled them out, handing them to Grissom. He tossed them up in the air and caught them again; smirking at the battered old Cubs keychain they were on.

“The backpack in my trunk has my emergency clothes, and I think I left a sweatshirt on the backseat too,“ she murmured, setting the leather menu folder back on the nightstand. 

Grissom nodded, heading for the door. He looked back at Sara and flashed her a gentle smile. “You _know_ room service isn’t going to be open for another hour and a half, Sara.” 

She checked her watch and emitted a low unhappy groan; Grissom sighed as her nose began to bleed once more. She fished for a Kleenex from the nightstand.

“Let me see what I can get downstairs. Back soon."   
So saying, he stepped out into the quiet hallway. At three-thirty in the morning of New Year’s Day, the twentieth floor of the Tangiers hotel was empty, and Grissom walked along towards the elevators, letting his mind mull over the quiet joy filling him.

Initially Sara’s playful, impromptu proposal had taken him a little by surprise, yes, but on reflection it made sense. It was so typical of Sara not only to be impulsive and headstrong, but also to ignore gender roles and tradition. She went after what she wanted in straightforward fashion and always had except when it came to him, Grissom realized. He had been the only desire in her life that she’d had no idea how to tackle.

And that clumsiness had led to some rough spots, he ruefully acknowledged to himself; some awkward moments, some situations between them in the past that they both regretted and still winced about, even now. He sighed, knowing that although things were much better between them, the possibility for future problems was always there.

Love didn’t conquer all, Grissom now knew, it merely brought most obstacles low enough to climb over, given time and patience.

He had nearly reached the end of the hall when he heard a low laugh--a woman’s--coming from behind one of the doors. For a moment Grissom paused as his recognition caught up with his hearing, and he suddenly knew that Jacqui Franco, Fingerprint technician extraordinaire, was on the other side of 2016. Then a second, deeper voice answered hers, and Grissom felt an odd pang of disbelief. The knob began to turn, and he hurried around the corner, desperately not wanting to encounter Ms. Franco OR Sheriff Atwater at this ungodly hour of the morning.

Mercifully the elevator was empty. He took it down until it stopped briefly at the fourteenth floor to collect a single passenger.

“Parking level please,” the soft-voiced woman bundled in the rabbit-fur jacket and scarf mumbled to him. Something smelled odd, but Grissom said nothing. He pressed the button and they rode down in silence.

“It’s not safe to be out alone like this," Grissom warned her politely as the elevator came to a slow stop, “Would you like me to call the parking attendant?”

The woman shook her head, her face low down in the fluffy collar of the coat. The doors opened on the cold and desolate cement garage, where a brisk breeze whistled through vehicles.

“No it’s fine. I’m close. Thanks." she called out to him as she scurried off, her high heels clattering loudly. 

Grissom eyed her worriedly for a moment, but turned to his focus on finding Sara’s car. She’d given him general directions, and it took a few minutes to find it, wedged between a mini-van and a battered red VW fastback. In the distance he heard a car rev up and drive off.

The backpack was in the trunk; right where Sara said it would be, along with her spare field supplies, jumper cables, a first aid kit and two boxes of Girl Scout cookies. Grissom picked one up, smiling as he remembered Catherine sending around the order sheet, along with a vaguely threatening post-it memo that implied that any CSI not willing to fork over $3.50 to support Lindsey’s troop would be considered a cheapskate.

Thin Mints—clearly Sara knew his weakness.  
Hefting them into the backpack, Grissom closed the trunk and locked it, heading back to the elevator. The ride up was a solitary one, and as he loped back down the hall it dawned on him that he’d forgotten to take the room key. He stood before 2024 and knocked lightly.

As the door opened, he looked down the corridor and was utterly startled to see a familiar face peeking out of a door tugged ajar across the hall and down one room. A shirtless Warrick blinked in surprise, locking gazes with Grissom, the two men not uttering a word. In an instant, they sized each other up in their various states of casual attire. Then his door opened, and Grissom quickly slipped inside, hearing Warrick’s door close behind as well. Sara, dressed only in his tuxedo coat, snuggled into him and Grissom dropped the backpack to hold her.

“Got a surprise for me?” she inquired with warm seduction.

“Yes. Warrick’s across the hall.”

That floored Sara for a moment; she stared at Grissom, goggle-eyed before smothering a laugh against his shirtfront. Grissom joined her for a moment, then eased her back into the room, letting her take the backpack from him while he hung onto the box of cookies. 

Sara dug into the bag, still laughing. "So who do you think he’s here with?” she asked softly, fishing out clothing and laying the garments out on one of the armchairs. 

Grissom, who was struggling to open the cookies, glanced up for a moment and shrugged. “What makes you think he’s with someone? He could have sacked out on his own.”

The arched eyebrow and cynical stare he got in return made his mouth twitch; Sara at her most skeptical amused him to no end.

“If we were discussing Nick, or Greg, yeah. But this is _Warrick_ ," she replied with a knowing smile, carefully rolling up her silk dress before putting it into the backpack. 

Grissom tore into the package with a little more force than necessary. Politely, he handed the cookies to Sara after taking four for himself, then stretched out on the unused bed, reaching for the remote. “I don’t know, and to be honest, I don’t worry about it,” he told her softly. 

Sara laughed. She shimmied out of the coat, drawing Grissom’s attention away from the newscast on the screen, and stretched her arms up high, arching a bit, reveling in her simple, glorious nudity for the moment. Grissom choked on a cookie.

“Since this is a hotel with a vaguely Moroccan theme, I guess that makes me your harem girl . . .” came her soft taunt. Grissom’s expression shifted into a look of smutty delight, and Sara felt her pulse jump in reaction to it. It never failed yet to surprise and thrill her when he let his desire show in his eyes, which she’d long thought were one of his finer features. 

He carefully patted the bedspread next to him.

“Come here and get under the covers before you freeze, Acushla. Do you realize we’ve never watched television together?” he commented, making room for her, one big arm going around her shoulders. 

Sara snuggled it, keeping a tight grip on the box of cookies. “Hey, you’re right. Do you miss it?”

“Only in October,“ Grissom confessed. “During the World Series."

He pointed the remote at the set and switched channels. Three unmistakable characters appeared on screen; Sara giggled, Grissom didn’t. He studied them with a sigh. 

“You know, I don’t GET them. If Moe was really hurting Larry and Curly he’d be charged with assault—repeated offenses, mind you. And the fact that they’re not really beating each other up is pretty obvious even to a little kid. What’s the appeal?”

Sara shook her head as she leaned against him. “It’s all in the potential violence, Grissom. The sound effects carry through the conceptualization of pain, and that on top of the insipid storylines and infantile characters are supposed to appeal to your sense of humor.”

They both stared at the screen while Curly dodged an eye gouge and endured several scalp slaps. Sara fought a grin; Grissom just shook his head and changed the channel. Immediately the screen was filled with a close-up of a praying mantis, swaying on a thin branch. 

Grissom made a sound of approval. “Ahh . . . Tenodera aridifolia sinensis,” he intoned happily. 

Sara fed him a cookie, snorting as she did so. “Praying mantis to the rest of us.”

“Yes. A ferocious predator and elegant insect, a prime example of natural form selectively streamlined by function," he began seriously, cocking his head at Sara.

She laid her hand over the remote and slipped it from his grasp. “The most noteworthy thing I remember about the praying mantis is that she rips her mate’s head off after, and sometimes DURING sex, Grissom, and that’s not going to help the mood here, if you know what I mean.”

He winced a little, and Sara flicked the channel; immediately the screen was filled with several writhing bodies moving in time with a torrid soundtrack. Sara gave a squeak; Grissom blinked.

“Coming up next, You’ve got She-Male," came a throaty announcer’s voice. Hurriedly Sara fumbled with the remote switching away from the porn and onto a commercial for paper towels.

Next to her, Grissom noted her discomfort, not saying a word. Defensively, Sara glared back at him.

“What?” she demanded, trying to sound cool. His eyes twinkled.

“Excuse me, but aren’t you the _same_ woman who literally, breathtakingly pinned me to a bed and rode me like a bronco not more than four hours ago?”

“That,” Sara tried for dignity, “was different.”

“No soundtrack?” Grissom inquired innocently.

Sara tried very hard not to laugh so she pressed her face into his chest, but even so, her giggles leaked through sides. “Yeah, okay, ‘Sidle Does Grissom: Tangier Style,’ has sort of a catchy ring to it,” came her muffled comment.

He laughed and gently stroked her hair. “Speaking of rings—when do I get mine?”

On the screen, the movie showed a pair of desperate Secret Service agents driving a tan car the wrong direction up a cloverleaf. Sara turned down the volume and turned to look at Grissom, her face slightly pink.

“Excuse me—your ring?”

“Yes. You proposed and I accepted. Therefore, I get a ring,” came his soft, teasing tone. “I’m wearing an eight and a half these days, by the way.”

Her skeptical expression wavered between outrage and hilarity so Grissom kissed her repeatedly until Sara softened against him, sprawling with languid pleasure across his supine form.

“I already spent a _fortune_ on you for Christmas,“ she grumbled, nibbling on his neck.

“Deal with it, Sara. I’m expensive, yet worth the aggravation,” Grissom reassured her as he began to push the tangled sheet off her body.

*** *** ***

The call came in around a quarter to five, and Brass was on-site within half an hour. He glanced into the dark hotel room, then turned to the two officers in the hallway and spoke softly to them, his voice low.  
“No one goes in or out. I’ll talk to the night manager and anyone doing housekeeping on this floor in an hour. Got it?”

The senior officer nodded; Brass fished for his cell phone and began dialing. It took almost four rings for an answer.

“Yeah?” came the breathless, distinctly grouchy voice.

“Good morning to you too, Sunshine. We’ve got two very un-live ones over at the Tangiers, and it’s going to be hell to keep the media back, so I suggest you get here ASAP unless you want your overtime crew to start the processing.”

“What floor?”

“Fourteenth . . ." even as he said the words, Brass grinned to himself, intuition kicking in as he added, “Hey, which one are YOU on right now?”

A pause, and then—“Twentieth. Be down in five minutes.”

“I’ll call to have some kits brought in,” the detective muttered.

Grissom cleared his throat. “I can get one fairly quickly. Ten minutes.”

“Young love,” Brass snorted, and hung up.

Clem clanked her way through the lobby, lugging three field kits and trying not to let them bang against her legs. Her badge passed inspection, and the officer at the doors let her in, pointing her towards the elevators. There, another officer sent her up to the fourteenth floor. Already reporters and news vans were gathering in the parking lot in the early morning hours, and many of the guests of the hotel were milling around trying to check out.

On the fourteenth floor, Clem spied Greg, who was milling around on the periphery of group. He spotted Clem and waved her over with a quick grin; she liked the slightly rakish look of his rumpled green sharkskin suit, tie stuffed in his breast pocket, dangling out.

“Hey . . . man, that was quick—I thought you had the night off,” he remarked, taking two of the kits from her. Clem shook her head and mimed a panting puppy; Greg laughed.

“Eager, yeah. I was that—once. Let’s get these to Grissom and see if he wants us here or back at the lab. No bets on which it’s probably gonna be.”

They pushed their way through the policemen who were keeping curious guests away, and found Grissom standing on the threshold of room 1422.  
An odd smell pervaded the hall, not unpleasant exactly, but definitely unusual. He took the kit from Clem and nodded his thanks.

Greg noticed that Sara was dusting the room door handle and card slot for prints, looking relaxed in her jeans and green tee shirt, while Grissom, like himself, was still in his formalwear, albeit with the tuxedo shirtsleeves rolled up, and his vest unbuttoned.

“Tell me what you smell,” he intoned. Clem shrugged, and mimed a spray can, moving it up and around. 

Grissom nodded. “Insecticide, but not a spray. This is far more concentrated than a can of Raid.” He fished in the kit for the medical mask and put it on; Grissom stepped in, gesturing for the others behind him to stay back. Cautiously he guided the beam of the flashlight up along the carpet and into the room, letting the light catch the sad and incongruous tableaux of two naked young men intertwined in a last embrace.

Grissom held his breath, both out of surprise and self-preservation, since the fumes were much stronger in the center of the room. He resisted the urge to go open the sliding glass door to the balcony, and instead, let the beam sweep the room once more. Clothing, champagne bottles, assorted sexual paraphernalia, but no suspicious canisters, no source of spray.

Grissom moved to the bathroom and checked in there. The usual mess of dropped towels and traveling kits lay strewn on the tiny counter. He carefully made his way back to the door and pulled the mask off, coughing a little.

“Greg, Clem, have the Cyranose 320 brought up ASAP and stand by for samples of vapor and possibly fluid. Sara, we’ve got vomit and semen to collect. Warrick," He looked up to the approaching CSI with a slight wince,“There are fifteen probable surfaces to print in there—nightstands, lamps, remote and bathroom fixtures.”

“Right,” Warrick replied, avoiding Grissom’s direct gaze as he knelt and fished for gloves out of the nearest open kit. “Any ID on the vics?”

Brass moved in, keeping his voice low, and for once his expression was carefully bleak. “Oh yeah. One of the young men in that room is Dalton Ayers.”

Warrick bit back an expletive; Greg’s eyes widened.  
“Ayers? Quarterback for UNLV, due to play like, in four hours from now in the Vegas Bowl? Oh MAN . . .”

“Was this leaked to the media?” Grissom demanded.

“Not yet,” Brass sighed. "The double murder is story enough on its own, but once they hear who’s involved it’ll be a freak show down there. And there’s worse news—the other victim is one Lee Atwater.”

“Not—“ Grissom began, appalled.

Brass gave a slow nod. “Yeah. The Sheriff’s nephew.”

*** *** ***

Grissom refused to rush anything, and for once, both the officers inside and outside the hotel room supported him on that. He and Sara waited while David pronounced and the bodies were bagged then carried out. Painstakingly, Grissom collected trace, dropping evidence into bindles and labeling them in his strong handwriting. Sara carried them off. The vapors in the room were fading away, but no one took chances, and Grissom insisted they all wear masks.

He looked into the bathroom, where Warrick was finishing a dust on the water glass there. Neither of them commented on the fact they were both still dressed in rumpled formalwear. Grissom’s eyebrow arch asked the question and the other man managed a faint smile.

“A few good ones in here, along with a lipstick print on the rim . . . really faint. It might be a gloss instead of a full color type.”

As he said this, Warrick tried not to smirk; Grissom himself was wearing a smudge of color on the very edge of his shirt collar. Just a tiny spot, but it was there. All he needed now, Warrick mused, was some matching sign from Sara.

“Good. Would you make sure that any hair samples we pull are matched against animal fur, specifically domestic rabbit?”

This time it was Warrick’s eyebrow that went up.

Grissom frowned. “I think I may have crossed paths with the killer at about three-thirty this morning. She was wearing a rabbit fur jacket and the odor of insecticide.”

“Ah.” Warrick didn’t ask the obvious question that sprang to mind: namely what was Grissom doing in a hotel at three in the morning. Instead, he stepped out of the bathroom and glanced over at Sara, who was swinging the Cyranose in the center of the room.

Then it hit him; she was too tall.

A quick look down, and Warrick saw her feet encased in the black strap Astrabellas, their three-inch heels obvious. He looked away for a second to control his reflexive smirk. “Sara, I’m taking this round back—got anything to add?”

“Three pads, initial readings for petroleum derivatives. They’re on the dresser there,” she murmured, resetting the dials on the machine.

Just a little way down the hall he ran into Nick, who was unshaven, pale and quiet. Recognizing the pallor of a hangover, Warrick grinned. “Yo, you look like you should be taking a nap on a steel gurney over at Doc Robbin’s.”

“Yeah, yeah, happy New Year’s Day back atcha,” came the low, slightly pained mumble. He flinched slightly under Warrick’s light blow to his shoulder and sighed.

Grissom took one look at him and shook his head. "You don’t look good, Nick.”

“I’m fine. A little headache, but I’ve lived through worse. What have we got?”

As Grissom laid out the situation to him, Sara packed up the Cyranose and made her way out of the room; a nod to both men and she left for her car. Once behind the wheel she pulled off the high heels with a sigh, and tossed them in the back, then drove bare-foot to the lab, wondering if she could make a quick stop at a Foot Locker somewhere.

*** *** ***

It was nearly six-forty-five when Grissom found himself making the trip he’d been dreading. Leaving Nick to oversee securing the crime scene, he took the elevator back to the twentieth floor. As the elevator doors opened after the ride up, a startled Catherine nearly bumped into him; Grissom took in the sight of her standing there in brand new sweatpants and tee shirt, the Tangier’s logo emblazoned on them.

He said nothing. Catherine looked down, and then up, her gaze both embarrassed and slightly defiant.

Grissom sighed.“We have a crime scene down on fourteen, and it’s going to be a full media circus if we don’t keep it under control. Get to the lab ASAP and help Sara and Warrick get started on Trace,” he told her. 

Catherine blinked and nodded, scooting into the elevator car past him as he stepped out. She started to ask him something but the doors closed too quickly, and Grissom merely waved to her.

Once the car began to descend, he squared his shoulders and walked slowly to 2016 and knocked lightly on it. A few moments later, Jacqui looked out at him from the cracked door. Her face was pink, and her hair disheveled, but the expression in her big eyes was calm.

“Yes?”

“I have to talk to Atwater, Jacqui. It’s...serious,” Grissom muttered. She wavered a moment, but he added, “Personal.”

A few seconds later, Rory Atwater was at the door, his unshaven face both angry and worried. Grissom drew in a breath and leaned on the doorframe, speaking low.

“Sheriff, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but your nephew’s been found dead in this hotel this morning, down on the fourteenth floor. Given the circumstances in which he was found, it’s going to play pretty badly in the media, so I wanted you to be prepared for that.”

“Lee’s . . . dead?” Atwater rumbled back, his voice tight and hurt. For the first time, Grissom felt a pang of sympathy for the man and nodded.

Atwater sighed, a slow leaking sound of oncoming pain as he blinked. "Murdered?” came his sharp question.

“Possibly.”

“Was he alone?”

“No,” Grissom reluctantly admitted, “He was found with another victim, a Dalton Ayers.”

“Oooooooh fuck. Jesus jumped up H on a handcar, that’s ALL we need! I knew Lee was gay, he never hid that, but banging the UNLV quarterback . . .shit! Have Brass come up and we’ll hold a meeting here to figure out what to release to the press.”

“I’ve got to get back to my lab, Sheriff. The evidence isn’t going to wait, and the sooner I get there, the sooner I can figure out what actually happened,” Grissom pointed out gently.

Atwater nodded, running a hand through his hair. He drew in a breath. "Right. Jesus, Katie’s going to—have the families been notified?”

Grissom shook his head. “Brass is holding the line until Robbins gets through, so you have at least an hour. I have to go.”

Atwater nodded bleakly as he finished buttoning his shirt. He shot a look at Grissom, his expression taut and yet vulnerable; Grissom could see the war going on between the professional sheriff and the personal uncle clearly.

“I owe you one, Grissom. I appreciate you taking the time to tell me all this yourself.”

Grissom nodded, and walked away.

*** *** ***

The next five days were a hellish drive of activity at the lab. Grissom oversaw every phase of the case, driving himself hard as he moved from morgue to Trace and back to the scene. Greg ran the epithelials from the bathroom and the nightstands while Hodges spent long hours delicately testing the pads out of the Cyranose. Sara worked with Warrick on the fibers and hairs, and a very subdued Jacqui kept trying to track down the six different prints found in the hotel room.

Robbins confirmed death by asphyxiation, with industrial strength insecticide as the weapon of choice. The alcohol levels in each man indicated they were too drunk to struggle, and bloody towels at the scene confirmed that the canisters had been jammed into their mouths, then taken from the scene.

Based on the lipstick on the glass, Nick and Catherine took the footwork with Brass, following up on the rental of the room and the known friends and family of the deceased boys, turning up a handful of female companions of Dalton Ayers. Almost all of them had alibis except one, Bethany Dawes, who matched the image of the woman in the security camera tape at the parking garage exit.

Complete with rabbit skin coat.

Brass himself broke the case in quiet and dogged fashion when he pulled up the last link—Bethany Dawes worked part time for Dr. Harry Stevenson, DMV. By the time she was brought in for questioning she confessed, spilling out a long and vitriolic tirade against Ayers, complaining of being a ruse to hide his homosexuality from the public.

“He promised he’d change, give up the guy sex for me, but it never happened! And when I found out he was going to share a room with Lee for New Year’s, I knew the perfect way to do it.”

“Why didn’t you just—see other guys?” Catherine mused softly.

Bethany shot her an incredulous look. “He was Dalton Ayers, okay? MVP, most likely to get a pro contract before breaking into a sweat in the first round of draft picks. A good ride like that only comes around _once_ in a girl’s lifetime.”

“So you waited until he and Lee were drunk, then got yourself invited in and helped them drink some more. By the time they were out of it, you jammed the flea bombs into their mouths and set them off. Lee struggled a bit, hence the vomit, but couldn’t do more than roll around a bit on the bed. You waited until they were both dead, then took the cans with you and left,” Catherine intoned in a deadpan voice.

Bethany looked sullenly at her lawyer, who said nothing. 

Catherine sighed.

Behind the two-way glass, Grissom and Sara looked in, both of them slightly grim. He shifted his gaze from the window to study Sara’s profile a moment. She shot him a troubled glance.

“Do you ever worry about the price of deception, Grissom?” she asked.

He gave a deep sigh, his shoulders moving as he did so. Deliberately, he pulled her into his arms, holding her closely even as the door to the interrogation room opened and the occupants came filing out, Brass in the lead, Catherine bringing up the rear.

She paused, looked at the two of them, intertwined, for a long moment, a soft, soft smile faintly touching the corners of her mouth before she caught up to the group moving away.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

The Ayers case made the news as the lead story for several days running, and everyone at the crime lab grew heartily sick of dodging reporters and avoiding phone calls. Grissom was grateful that he and Sara were at the house instead of their respective former residences, but he fretted about the possibility of either of them being followed there. Fortunately none of the reporters were willing to sit on a stakeout in the early pre-dawn hours, so they were left in peace to collapse in exhaustion and catch what sleep they could.

And Grissom worried about Sara. The surgery was two days away, and although she claimed she wasn’t anxious about it, he sensed her restlessness, which she kept channeling in slightly—odd—ways. To wit:  
Sara single-handedly took the Christmas tree down swiftly in one afternoon, with new plastic tubs for garlands, ornaments and lights, labeled and inventoried in neat handwritten lists taped to them in meticulous fashion.

The bathroom had never been so clean; Grissom swore he could see his reflection in the toothy smiles of the mermaids, which was disconcerting, particularly when he was standing in there naked taking a morning leak.

All of Doreen’s boxes had been restacked, alphabetically, in the garage, and neatly covered with painter’s drapes. Color-coordinated ones.

Figaro had taken to slinking out of any room Sara was in, and coming to Grissom for extra petting, settling down into his high-pitched motorboat purr as he curled up worriedly in the man’s lap. For the most part Grissom was patient, but things came to a head on the afternoon before Sara’s surgery.

“We don’t need to buy my ring right NOW,” he muttered in a perplexed tone as she tugged on his arm, practically dragging him through the mall. 

Initially they’d come in for the bookstore and ice water, since Sara was forbidden to eat anything for the next twelve hours, but she’d spotted the tiny corner jewelers and was now dragging him to it. Sara was surprisingly strong when she wanted to be, and Grissom gave in rather than cause a scene.

“Not backing out on me are you? Typical, Grissom—you’ll wait until I’m under and skip out to Corsica or someplace.”

“Sara, in the first place, I’m NOT going to skip out on you, and in the second place, Corsica is boring. If it came down to it, I’d rather go to Cairo and get some field work in with beetles.”

She looked over her shoulder at him in a patient glare, but the little twitch at the corner of her wide mouth sent a pang through Grissom’s chest. The tiniest little quiver there showed him how close her emotions were to the surface, and seeing it, he stopped. Ever so gently he reached out and brushed a stray curl back from her face, letting his puzzled expression ask the question for him. The quiver grew a little stronger.

“I’m fine, really. I just thought since we’re here, and the store’s here, it might be nice to . . . go look. Just . . . because . . .” her husky voice trailed away and she looked off, over his shoulder, working very hard at keeping her expression from falling apart. Behind her, families bustled by, pushing strollers and chattering noisily as they streamed around the two people standing stock-still. Slowly, Grissom smiled at her, feeling pure, powerful longing rise up through his chest and to his throat in a surge so strong it nearly rocked him back.

“I’d love to, Sara,” he relented, sliding her hand into his, trying to warm it against his palm. Tentatively her slender fingers wove around his, clinging for a moment. Grissom tightened his grip and strode forward; leading her in the direction she wanted to go.

It was a small shop, empty of customers, but rich with atmosphere. In sparkling glass cases, various rings and necklaces glittered on green velvet cushions, and the carpet muffled footsteps. Sara looked around for a proprietor while Grissom kept his gaze on her. She absently wriggled her fingers free of his, not seeing his little flinch as he reluctantly let go. A woman sailed over to them, her green eyes sharp behind half-moon lenses, her smile a little stern.

“How may I help the two of you today?”

“We’re looking for an engagement ring,” Sara announced softly. The woman gave a thoughtful nod, her smile warming up a bit more.

“Congratulations,” she offered with a twinkle, taking Sara’s hand and patting it gently. Her touch was cool, and calming; Sara blushed a bit.

“I’m getting a ring for HIM,” she stressed, “My . . ."

“ . . . Fiancé,” Grissom stage-whispered into her ear.

The woman behind the counter smiled, looking gravely amused by Sara’s bewilderment.  
“Unusual, but not unheard of. I assume YOU proposed, my dear?”

Sara nodded; Grissom gave a pained little sigh. “For the record here, I’m constrained under a prohibitive parental mandate.”

The woman turned her gaze to Grissom and blinked merrily. “Don’t tell me--your mother objects?” she asked him with a straight face.

Sara snickered; Grissom’s mouth twitched. “Hardly. Of the many things my mother is, subtle is _not_ one of them,” came his arch reply.

This made Sara actually giggle, and the saleswoman’s mood lightened as she joined in.  
“Fair enough. My name is Lila Nagatoma and I’d be delighted to help you choose something to memorialize this important step in your lives. This way,"

She led them to an alcove with two upholstered stools and a polished mahogany table and bade them sit. They did, moving close enough to press against each other, seeking and sharing a warmth between them. Sara rubbed her cheek against his shoulder.

“Nervous?” she demanded in a low voice.

Grissom held her gaze for a moment. “Yes. I’ve never worn a ring in my life. Not even in high school or college.”

“Really?”

“Really. And by the time I was working in the coroner’s office in L.A. I was scrubbing up or donning latex gloves so often I don’t think I could have been able to. So this will definitely be a first for me.”

“Ah,” Sara nodded. She picked up his hand, squeezing it comfortingly as Mrs. Nagatoma returned with a few grey boxes. She pulled up a rolling stool and sat opposite Grissom and Sara, then drew in a deep breath.

“First a sizing—your hands are fairly large, but not out of proportion, so I’ll say a size nine," she slipped the silver loop onto Grissom’s left hand ring finger. It slid easily, and Mrs. Nagatoma frowned.

Sara hid her smile.“Eight and a half?” She whispered to Grissom.

He gave her a boyish look in return. “I know that because played around with the sizers when I was shopping for _your_ ring,” he confessed back in a soft voice. 

Sara blinked, stunned.“You—went shopping?”

“Eight and a half then,” Mrs. Nagatoma grumbled, working the silver sizer onto Grissom’s finger. It sat comfortably beyond his knuckle; he flexed his hand and nodded as Sara continued to stare at him.

“Not too loose, not too tight,” he murmured softly. The older woman nodded and took the band off of him and then looked over at Sara.

“Miss?”

“Huh? Oh, yes, eight and a half, right," Sara tried to refocus on the conversation. Her smile was dazed, her espresso eyes wide and wondering.

“Most men’s rings are of two designs: bands and mounts. For an engagement ring, man’s or woman’s, a mounted stone is traditional, with the option to join it to a wedding band. Which would you prefer?”

Stymied, Sara glanced at Grissom, who shrugged. 

Mrs. Nagatoma sighed. “You two haven’t talked about this much, have you?” came her soft little chide, even as she popped open one of the boxes on the table and pushed it towards them.

“We’ve been . . . busy . . . fighting crime. Ooooohhh!" Sara responded, picking up the ring and studying it closely. Grissom studied her, glad to see her focus on something other than the upcoming surgery. Sara held the ring up and let the light catch it.

The heavy gold ring had a flat, polished rectangular faceplate with subtle edging around it. Grissom took it from Sara and slipped it on, twisting it over his knuckle with a slight wince.

“Tight," came his observation.

Mrs. Nagatoma nodded sympathetically and tugged it off again.

“It’s a nice style, but I’m pretty sure we don’t have it in stock higher than an eight at the moment. Here, try this one while I see," she pushed another box towards Sara and rose, slipping into the back of the store.

Sara pulled the box open and smiled. This ring was a flat band, deeply engraved with a Greek key design around it; she held it up and shook her head. “Too busy.”

“I thought I get some say in this.”

“You do, babe. You get to agree with me that it’s too busy.”

Grissom said nothing, but his eyes twinkled. He was fighting a warm tremble deep in his stomach as he watched Sara open another box and breathe in deeply.

“Yes.”

“Yes what?” he demanded, unable to see what made her blink rapidly. She pulled the ring out of the box and cupped it in her two palms reverently. With a shy, proud look at Grissom, Sara fluttered her eyelashes.

“Give me your hand.”

Warily he did so, not missing the way she kept the ring hidden.

“Close your eyes . . ."

“Sara—"  
“Please.” It was a soft, serious plea and he sighed, shutting his eyes even as he felt the cool slide of gold onto his finger.The ring felt light, but solid, a reassuring sensation.

“May I open them now?” his fingers were resting on hers, and Grissom savored the feel of her hands, strong and graceful as they supported his bigger one.

“Uh-huh.”

He looked first at her, and then down.

Elegant. The first impression he got was of elegance. The ring on his finger was a rounded band with a thin channel cut around the center of it; not a deep groove but defined. On the front of the ring, embedded in the channel were three small square-cut diamonds in a row, sparkling in the light of the shop. Grissom drew in a slightly surprised breath and looked up at Sara’s blissful expression.

“It’s perfect, Grissom. Masculine, unpretentious, and strong. Like you.”

He flexed his fingers, getting used to the feel of the band and trying to fight the hot lump in his throat. Odd sensations kept spinning through his chest: love, fear, pride, astonishment and over all of it, an almost overwhelming rightness of the moment. To be here; to wear this; to love Sara; all of it coalesced within him and his fingers gripped hers tightly as it hit.

“For . . . me?” Grissom whispered shakily.

Sara smiled. Her smile was full and sweet, her teeth showing, the depth in her mahogany eyes lovely and unfathomable as she nodded. “Oh yes, Gil. For you.”

When Mrs. Nagatoma returned, she smiled to herself, holding back a moment in the doorway to let that intriguing couple finish their kiss.

*** *** ***

Clem looked to the right, and then the left before venturing into the break room. Her first week on the job had made her a little wary, and it was only after she sat down with her back to one of the walls that she actually managed to relax.

“Hey Clem . . . so . . . whatcha got for lunch?” came a familiar wheedle. She looked up to see Greg hanging off the doorway, staring not at her, but at her Three Stooges lunchbox. She wrapped her fingers around it possessively, shaking her head and making her gold curls fly around her face.

“Ah come on, it’s been three days," he flashed a hopeful grin at her. “You’re not still annoyed about the joke, are you?”

Her withering expression indicated that yes, she was. Not everyone’s first round of interoffice mail delivery started with finding a severed human limb sitting on the pile with a note in the fingers that read: _Need a hand with this?_

Not that she could shriek or scream even if she wanted to, but she did drop the arm off in Grissom’s desk at the end of her route with another note that commented on disrespect for the dead and the need for some people to grow beyond a seventh grade sense of humor. The resulting memos had been brief but scorching; she’d enjoyed delivering _those_ quite a bit.

“I keep telling you it’s over. So what is it tonight? Peanut butter and sweet onion sandwiches? Macaroni, cheese and salsa casserole? Mango steak?” Greg pleaded, pulling the most shameless puppy eyes since Benji hit the big screen. Clem softened.

With an imperious wave of her hand she flicked open the lunch box and pulled out a foil wrapped tub. Greg bounded over and leaned across her shoulder, watching raptly while she unpeeled it as slowly as a stripper toying with a stocking.

“Ooohhhh--anise chicken with egg noodles," Greg whimpered. Clem looked up at him and waited. He pursed his mouth, not quite begging but close to it, and with a sigh . . .

She caved.

She always did, sharing the treats she and her mother made with the one man she knew needed them. Not that Greg’s mother didn’t feed him well, but having a toddler around the house made cooking tough, and Greg’s lunch had been coming out of vending machines for the past couple of months.

“Who made it, you or your mom?”

Clem lifted her chin, indicating herself, and Greg dashed over to the cupboards, pulling a paper plate out eagerly. Catherine and Warrick wandered in, deep in discussion as Clem divvied up the food.

“—Evidence is clear. We’ve got the fact that he checked in, the lipstick stain on his collar and that hug outside Interrogation One,” Catherine enumerated.

Warrick shook his head. “He could have gotten the smear from any number of encounters on New Year's—that party was pretty crowded. Checking in is flat out inconclusive, and as for the hug . . ." Warrick gave an eloquent shrug. 

Catherine breezed over to the coffeepot and dumped the tepid sludge out without missing a beat. "Okay, individually those facts wouldn’t hold up in court, but given what we know of the man, and piling them up in the short space of time in which they occurred, I’d have to go with my initial instinct. They did it.”

“Who did whaf?” Greg demanded through a mouthful of noodles. Clem shot a puzzled look at the two CSIs as well. Warrick snorted, reaching over Catherine’s head for the can of coffee in the cupboard.

“Never you mind—and where’s my report on that shooting in the Atlantis?”

“I am on _dinner_ break,” Greg announced after swallowing his mouthful.

Catherine grinned, sniffing the air appreciatively. “And chowing down on someone else’s cooking—Geez that smells good, what is it?” 

Clem scribbled on her whiteboard, holding it up as she sipped her Doctor Pepper. 

Warrick glanced at it as well. “Niiice. You know you keep feeding Sanders like that and he’s going to follow you home.” 

Clem rolled her eyes in mock-horror; Catherine laughed and finished setting up the coffeepot. She crossed her arms and sighed. “Still, I’m convinced something’s up between those two.” 

“What, Sara and Grissom?” Greg sighed, carefully cleaning his plate and eyeing Clem’s longingly. She pulled it out of the reach of his fork. 

“Yeah. Nancy Drew here is trying to solve the Mystery of the Cuddling Co-Workers,” Warrick shot an amused look at Catherine, his eyebrows waggling. She pouted, but before she could say another word, Grissom strode in, files in his hands. 

“Warrick we just got the warrant for the back offices at the Atlantis, you’re on it. Catherine, Judge Pedrini moved up the Ochoa trial to Tuesday, so you need to be ready; go over the file until you know it forwards and backwards. Greg—what are you eating?” 

“Chifkn,” came the muffled reply through a forkful. 

Clem shot him a dirty look and held her plundered plate up high over her curly hair. Grissom cocked his head as he handed a file to Catherine. Warrick grinned and slipped out the door. 

“Is it yours?” came the weary question. Caught, Greg shook his head and finished his mouthful, blushing. 

Grissom sighed. “Sara’s off tonight, so we’re short-handed. Be ready for the field if I need you,” he told the younger man. Greg nodded dutifully. Catherine did a double take, her glance lingering on the band adorning Grissom’s finger. 

“Nice ring.” 

He glanced down, mouth twitching. “Yes.” 

“So--is there something you should tell us?” came her low voice, half-teasing, half-curious. Grissom’s eyebrows went up and he seemed to give her question some thought. 

“No. Get the Ochoa case memorized and be ready to testify by Tuesday. Oh, and Nick mentioned it’s your turn to file the weekly cases.” 

Huffily Catherine stomped out as Grissom headed for the coffee pot. Greg carried his plate to the garbage. 

“Is Sara sick?” he asked softly. When Grissom shot him a piercing look, he shrugged. “I just wondered, with the nosebleed thing. Some of us around here care . . . too.” 

Grissom hesitated. He poured his coffee before speaking. “She’s having minor surgery tomorrow around noon. Nothing serious.” 

“Ah,” Greg sighed. Clem was carefully leafing through a copy of GQ, pointedly ignoring them. 

Greg tried again. “For her nose?” 

“Yes,” Grissom managed with more patience than usual. He looked over the rim of his cup at Greg before he took a sip. 

“Ah. That IS a nice ring. So. Did you get engaged?” This last came out as an attempt at a joke; Greg trailed off with a sickly grin that Grissom didn’t return. 

“Yes Greg. In fact, Sara and I have mutually pledged ourselves to the sacred bond of future matrimony forsaking all others in this lifetime and plane of existence. Shouldn’t you be getting back to work?” 

“Okay, right, sorry I asked," came the soft mutter. Greg washed the fork and carefully stacked it in the dish drain then loped out. Grissom sat at the table with Clem and fished for the crossword in the newspaper. She paused, then signed something to him. 

“Thank you,” he replied absently, looking for an eight letter word for domestic union. 

_*** *** ***_

Sara wandered from room to room in the house, drifting through them quietly, but steadily until Grissom set down his journal and caught her gaze. “You’re wearing a path into the carpet, and every time you head in the kitchen, Figaro thinks you’re going to open a can for him.” 

"Oh," She bent down, scooping up the small black cat, stroking his white chin as he thoughtfully stretched it out for her. Sara sighed heavily, and Grissom recognized the sound. He set the magazine aside and beckoned, pulling her into his lap on the rocker, the three of them making a warm little pileup on the chair for a few quiet minutes. 

“I’ve never been operated on before. I’ve had my collarbone set, and spent the night after . . . Boston, but other than that—nothing.” 

“It’s a little scary,” Grissom admitted in a soothing voice. “When I had my tonsils out, I stayed for two days.” 

“How old were you?” 

“Eight,” he told her. “I was afraid my mother wasn’t going to come back and take me home when it was over.” 

Her hug around him tightened a little and Grissom leaned into it, laughing softly, “It was quite a long time ago, Sara.” 

“Still, must have been terrifying for a little kid. But that’s not what I’m afraid of,” came her confession, shy and slow. Grissom scooped up Figaro and set him down; he shook himself and bounded off, patrolling to make sure no crickets had slipped into the house. Sara continued.“I’m worried about you.” 

“Me?” he asked curiously. It was still well before dawn, and Grissom wished Sara would at least try to sleep for a while. She nodded, brushing a strand of her hair back. 

“You. Sure I’m a little concerned about a laparoscopic probe up my sinuses while I’m unconscious, I mean who wouldn’t be? But I just worry about putting you through it. Stuff like this is always harder for the people waiting than it is for the ones going through it—all WE have to do is show up and let it happen.” 

“I never thought of it that way . . .” he muttered slowly, “but I guess that could be one of the reasons I never told you about MY surgery.” 

Sara nodded, managing a faint forgiving smile that made him feel better and worse at the same time. Grissom took it, though. 

“My point is I just don’t like the idea of you worrying.” 

Grissom shook his head; he patted her leg and she shifted, letting him get up. He laid his palms on her shoulders. “Too late. I’ll always worry about you, Sara. It’s ingrained on my neural pathways, carved into my psyche.” He tried to say it lightly while he herded her towards the bed, but a note of seriousness came through. 

She nodded at this statement of fact and slipped her arms around his waist, resting her cheek on his shoulder. “I’m aware of that. Let’s ease each other’s concerns then.” Raising her head she smiled at him and whispered, “Love me, Gil.” 

He could resist that plea no more than he could stop breathing; pulling her to him he kissed her, intending to be gentle, but the heat of Sara, so warm and alive urged him on. Grissom slowly undressed her, delighting in uncovering the curves and hollows of her slim body, kissing secret places he’d long lusted for and now had the privilege of tasting: the inside of her elbow, the base of her neck, the deep dimples between the knobs of her spine. Pliantly Sara stretched out, arms around Grissom as he feasted on her in lingering kisses and strokes. 

When he knelt between her parted knees, drinking in the sight of her flushed skin and bright eyes, she blinked, holding up her hands, wrists pressed to each other in a wordless plea. Grissom moaned softly then at her unexpected entreaty. He kissed her fingers as he wrapped the black silk stocking around her wrists, trying to leave the binding loose. Impatiently Sara shook her head. 

“The right way,” she insisted, urging him to tighten the bonds. Grissom did, lingeringly, looping the ends in a graceful bow before tickling her wriggling palms with a few hot tongue strokes. Sara let a hungry sigh leak out of her. She lifted her tied hands over her head and stretched herself out luxuriously, well-aware of the effect on Grissom. 

His eyes glittered fever-bright. Carefully he slid his hands around her hips and rolled her over, tugging Sara to her elbows and knees, letting his big palms slide over her bare skin with a possessiveness that left hot prickliness in its wake. Sara closed her eyes and let her senses go, savored Grissom’s kisses and strokes. He refused to rush, and when he let his beard stroke against the taut curve of her ass she thought she’d go mad. His fingers slid between her thighs, brushing the fur there, the tips moving in little circles, caressing her enough to make her spread her knees willingly. 

“Grissom—!" she pleaded, one cheek pressed against the pillows. He had the audacity to chuckle a little; the sound low and strained as he kissed each rounded half of her bottom. 

“You look edible this way . . . are you, Sara?” he teased, his breath hot against her tender skin. Her wriggle amused him, but he caught her hips in his hands to lift them higher, and slid his tongue along the slick ruffled flesh of her sex, nosing her happily. She sucked in a quick couple of breaths, her pulse pounding hard, almost matching the slippery wet strokes of Grissom’s hot tongue as it probed sweetly in teasing sweeps along that rosy wet valley, flicking on the underside of her taut, sensitive bud. Sara shivered. The slow relentless coil of desire grew and spiraled through her, making her rock back against his mouth, wanting Grissom’s sensual kisses there, wanting them so much . . . 

And then he hummed. Instantly the low vibrations of his mouth on her aching flesh tightened in glorious waves of molten pleasure; Sara cried out her joy but it was smothered on the pillow. When Grissom finally gave one last wet kiss to the back of her thigh she shuddered and dropped to the mattress, spent and dazed. Trembling. 

“Sara, look at me . . .” he pressed his mouth to the damp nape of her neck as he stretched out on her. Shakily she lifted her head and turned her face to him, sweat making her hair curl around her flushed face. The hot prodding of his cock against her hipbone brought a lazy smile to her face. 

“I need to be with you, I need you watching me when I come," he whispered, his big chest along her back. 

Sara could smell her own musk along his beard as she nodded. Grissom rose up and rolled her over, stroking her sleek legs as he parted them. Sara lifted her arms and lovingly hooked them around his strong neck when he braced his hands. She tensed as the hot thick head of his cock wetly pushed between her thighs in a slow stroke of powered pleasure. Grissom’s eyelids half-closed as he gave a low growl, his stomach clenching, moving his proud flesh into hers. 

“Sara, mine. I need you, love you like this under me, mine by choice," came his words, choked and soft. His cock slid deeper, the stroke relentless and strong. Sara’s legs wrapped around the small of his back and she let her mouth fall open, moaning a little as her still sensitive flesh welcomed him in. He pulled back and the rhythm began, strong and steady as Grissom fucked her. 

Sara clung to him, loving the rub of his chest on hers, the slick fire between their thighs, and most of all, the haunted wild look in Grissom’s face as his pleasure relentlessly mounted and his breathing grew louder. 

“Oh God, Sara!" one hand clumsily cupped the back of her head, pressing her face to his shoulder, “Bite me. Mark me, make me yours NOW---" he begged, and instantly Sara nipped her teeth into the rock-hard muscle there, feeling the searing flood of his physical passion fill her in heavy hard pulses. 

Grissom groaned against her damp temple, the sound of his animal pleasure a raw, sweet thrill to Sara. His hips moved in successively slowing thrusts, his spine arching less with each until he gently shuddered to a rest on her soft body. 

Sated. 

Sara lay half under him, drifting off to sleep like a leaf in a lazy river; content, loved and bound to the man in her arms in ways both civilized and primitive as the first light of dawn glimmered beyond the curtains. 


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

It was time. Sara still fidgeted a little, but her eyes were bright, and the frown on her brow was gone, Grissom noted. The print on her hospital gown was of little blue kites, and faintly he wondered where he’d seen or heard of them before. Around them, the faint blips and pings of medical monitors filled the sudden silence. Sara reached her cool hand for Grissom’s.

“Hey, piece of cake. The doctor even promised to save the bead for us,” she smiled. Her words were a little slurry, and Grissom noted that the amber-colored IV bag dripping its contents into the crook of her elbow was almost a fourth empty. The plastic hospital ID bracelets on her thin wrist looked enormous.

“Feeling a little sleepy yet?” he asked softly. Sara nodded, blinking. She couldn’t have the gas version of anesthesia, not given the location of her surgery, so the intravenous line was doing the job, although more slowly. Grissom tried to look reassuring, but suddenly it was hard, harder than he thought it would be. Sara lay back, as if sitting up was too much of a strain now; he felt her grip ease a little in his. Sara gave him a slow dazed smile, her eyes closing.

“I’m saiiiiling awaaaaayyy,” she sang softly. Grissom vaguely recognized the song as some elevator music he’d once heard, but Sara’s version sounded sweeter, slightly drunker. He knew the nurse would be in shortly to shoo him out to the waiting room and yet he wanted to hang on to her hand just a while longer and watch her slowly fall asleep. 

She forced her eyes open blearily. “Love me?”

“Sara," he chided, but her eyes were closing again, and he gave a harsh sigh at his lost moment. He fished in the breast pocket of his jacket for a pen. Carefully, Grissom printed ‘I LOVE YOU SARA, ALWAYS—G.G’. on her palm. He was just setting her hand down on the sheet and pocketing the pen when he heard the curtain _kawoosh_ to reveal Catherine and David standing there. David had a flowerpot of yellow daisies in his arms; Catherine looked concerned.

“Hey,” she called, but Sara’s eyes didn’t open. Her chest slowly rose and fell under the thin sheet, and Grissom sighed. Leaning over, he felt her forehead.  
“Out. They told us it would be fifteen minutes, but it’s been closer to twenty.”

David eyed the unconscious Sara nervously, and shifted his daisies from hand to hand. "I guess I should bring these back when she’s awake then. Any idea how long it will be?”

Grissom drew in a deep breath as he rose, reluctantly, from the chair beside the bed. “From what her doctor said, about three hours from start to finish. I planned on staying until she’s in post op, but after that they won’t let anyone see her until visiting hours late tomorrow, barring complications.”

Catherine folded her arms, and a motherly look crossed her face as she studied her sleeping colleague. “Poor kid! Well, at least the nosebleeds will stop. How long is she going to be out? Does she have anyone coming for her? Family?”

“They’ve been told, but it’s considered minor, so they’re coming to see her later this month. I’ve arranged for some time off if she needs it beyond what the doctors have suggested,” Grissom smoothly interjected. At that moment the nurse came in and looked first at Sara, then the group crowded in the curtained-off area.

“I’m sorry, but it’s time for Ms. Sidle to get rolling, folks. Doctor Fairchilde’s about ready to go, so if you’ll all move out to the waiting room we can get this operation going."

Reluctantly they began to file out; Grissom hesitated, then stepped back and bent down to kiss Sara’s slack mouth softly. As he looked up, Catherine’s gaze met his through a gap in the curtains.

She looked away.

Grissom followed her through the cold white room and through a doorway to another one carpeted and filled with furniture in warm, neutral colors. The lighting was as subdued as the conversation here, and David was already putting on his jacket.

“I’ve got to get back—would you see that Sara gets the daisies? They’re from me and Archie and Greg.” He pushed up his glasses with one finger, right on the bridge of his nose.

Grissom nodded, taking the daisies from him. Once he was gone, Catherine motioned to a pair of chairs off in one corner. They sat down together, not speaking for a few minutes, and Grissom got the impression that Catherine was trying very hard to sort through several questions, trying to find the right one to ask. He spoke first, knowing he owed it to her.

“Yes.”

“You do?” Catherine blinked, not as much surprised by his clairvoyance as by his quiet assurance. 

Grissom gave a shrug. "I have for a long time, Cath. I think you knew that. Probably before I did.”

“Well yeah. Not that it’s been any of my business until we hit that damned Marlin case. I can’t believe it—you finally put some proactive momentum to this Sara—thing—you’ve had.”

His look was slightly foreboding and slightly chagrined; Catherine punched his arm in a move to make them both feel better and oddly it worked.  
“God! Finally, at least ONE of us on the nightshift--no make that TWO of us--have a shot at a real relationship! Geez, Gris, it’s about time!” This last came out through a wide smile, and Grissom felt Catherine’s lean arms encircle him, squeezing tightly. He returned the hug after a moment, shyly, but with warmth, and Catherine burst out laughing.  
“So. Details, I want details here. What turned the tide, who made the first move?”

Grissom shot her a look, ever so slightly shaking his head, and Catherine deflated at the familiar stoic expression he wore. Her mouth twisted up unhappily.

“Oh God, you’re not going to tell me, are you? Damn it, if I don’t get it out of you, I’ll get it out of Sara, so you might as well talk. I mean, just how serious IS this?”

She watched him rub his shoulder absently as he finally spoke up.

“Serious enough that I’m asking you to keep it to yourself, Catherine. At the moment, I’ve got enough on my plate without having to face Cavello over that tricky minefield of interpersonal relationships in the workplace.”

She began to say something, then stopped and he could see her switch thoughts in mid-flow; her gaze dropped to the ring on his hand and a slightly hurt expression crossed her face. “Damn it, Gil, I thought we were good enough friends that you would have told ME!” Came her reproach. 

He caught her gaze with a steely level-eyed one of his own. “You’ve had a lot to deal with yourself lately,” came his soft comment, and she pulled up short on her tirade, feeling a blush cross her face. It was true, of course; Lindsey, Sam Braun, that asshole Chris, not to mention the still clearing smoke, figuratively, from the lab explosion. 

Catherine bit her lip, knowing anyone else but Grissom would have come down on her much harder. Still, to have missed a budding romance happening right under her nose was slightly galling.  
She cleared her throat, and Grissom flashed her a small smile, dimples deep.

“We’ve worked hard at keeping it private, AND out of the office.”

“Well you did a good job, right up until New Year’s,” Catherine snipped back, anxious to get at least one pinkie of the upper hand back. Grissom kept a virtuous expression, but she snorted. “Lipstick on your collar, as I remember.”

“Oh that’s rich, coming from the woman in the Tangier’s gift shop wardrobe stepping out of room 2021," he countered without looking at her. The heat waves of her blush could be felt for yards in all directions, but Catherine said nothing, suddenly remembering that discretion was definitely the better part of prudence for the moment.

After a while, Grissom cleared his throat. “Coffee?”

“Yeah,” she agreed, giving him a soft smile.

*** *** ***

The sun was coming up, making a long red line on the eastern horizon, outlining the hills with glowing color. The air was cool and crisp, swirling little eddies of sand and dirt along the sides of the road as the Denali drove along. Eventually it turned off on another, less smooth trail and slowed to a stop in the low cleft of foothills outside the city limits.

Grissom sat a moment, calming his breathing before he climbed out of the car. Moving on automatic, he locked up the car, then looked around the rising crags around him, not willing to admit why he was here, instead of curled up alone on the bed back at the house. He drew in a breath and walked forward, keeping his thoughts carefully blank. The gravelly sand crunched under his steps.

After about fifteen of them, he heard a low humorless laugh, and looked up to his left. Crouched on an outcropping of rock, Truman Ibarra looked down at him, teeth glinting in the growing dawn light.The two men stared at each other for a long moment, neither speaking nor moving. Finally Ibarra took his cowboy hat off and shook his head, his iron grey curls stirring in the breeze.

“Come up. Sit.” He called. Grissom hesitated; the ledge was at least twenty feet up, and not terribly wide, but Ibarra just waited, and finally he moved to the wall of rock and began to climb.

It was slow going; Grissom’s shoes weren’t made for canyons, and by the time he reached the ledge he could feel sweat trickling down his back and along his temples. He gingerly scooted out next to Truman, who gave him one quick glance, and handed him a canteen. The water was cool, and slightly stale, with a metallic flavor, but Grissom was grateful for the few mouthfuls he permitted himself.  
Truman spoke. “It’s a terrible view.”

“Depends on what we’re looking at,” Grissom countered automatically, his voice flat. 

Truman shot him a sidelong look, a patient, slightly worried flicker in his eyes. When Grissom said nothing further, he stretched out his hands, and stared at his knuckles. They were big, and rough, with dirt ingrained in the creases.

“And that, 'Manito, is one of the differences between us, eh? Looking at, and looking for. In fact, you looked FOR me. I think you spend a lot of your life looking for.”

“Looking for is . . . productive,” Grissom replied faintly, rubbing his eyes under his glasses, “It puts a sense of purpose and achievement to the process. Without looking, there is no finding, Truman.”

The other man shrugged, letting his bristly jaw work back and forth in a familiar fashion. "Finding is overrated, Gilberto. Muy so. What’s so great about finding when most of the time things are already there? No, give me the looking. Seeing the way everything IS without this . . . finding business to it. Don’t be a _pinche nalgon_ over it.” He coughed and added, “Nice ring.”

Grissom sighed heavily, and spoke in a low, discouraged voice. “I can’t take the seeing right now, Truman. She’s in so much pain they can’t take her off the Demerol for the next few days. It wasn’t supposed to be like that, but there was more damage than they realized, and they had to do more repair than they thought. I can take pain if it’s me, but it’s not. It’s her.”

Truman nodded slowly, suddenly soft. He flexed his rough hands and let them rest hanging over the tattered knees of his jeans. “ _Es la verdad._ We bleed through women; their pain always comes back to us one way or another. Mothers first, then lovers, wives, finally daughters. I lost mine when she was two months old. Crib death.”

Startled, Grissom looked at Truman, who gave the saddest smile he’d ever seen before lighting up a Marlboro and drew on it, hard.

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too. But I see it, 'Manito. On the landscape of my life, it’s there. Part of my personal horizon. I don’t have to look for it anymore.”

“Why is . . . why is it that HER pain is harder to take?” Grissom bleakly demanded. “Why does it make me want to . . ."

“—Slam your fist through a wall? Because you can’t take it FOR her, Gilberto, much as you want to.”

Shifting to get comfortable against the rock outcropping at their back, Truman puffed away and let the smoke trail out of his nostrils. The two men shared a lingering silence for a while as the light of dawn began to spill over the desert below them.

Then Truman spoke in a low voice. “Nita, she was my first wife. We married too young. She couldn’t handle the locked-up life on the bases we were stationed on, so we got divorced back when it was still a disgrace. At least she thought so, que no? Me, I was tired of the fighting, the yelling; first scars are deep ones. Then years go by and I meet Althea at a bar in Germany . A wild girl, hijole! Brown, picante, good for a man, but not the kind to settle down, even though she tried. When the baby died, she told me it was a sign she’d never be a good mother. She left me. And then . . . “ he rumbled, tossing the butt of the cigarette away, “ . . . I signed up for the testing.”

Grissom turned his head to look at him, eyes sharp and intent on the other man’s face. Truman met his gaze, mirrored it almost perfectly and they looked at each other in the cool morning light.

“Why?” Grissom asked, with more than just curiosity behind his words. 

Truman considered the question a while and rubbed his bristly chin. “Ever do bad things, _Manito mio_? Things that weren’t good for you, but you did them to purge yourself? Drink, maybe, or smoke?”

Grissom hesitated just long enough for Truman to grin, briefly and mime toking on a joint.

“Whiteboy stuff— blowing some MJ, maybe a pill or two in your time. Point is, you did them because what was inside you was too much for the moment. Some people try to drown it, or out-race it. Me, I figured whatever my government wanted to stick in my brain would do the trick.” His face grew haggard and bleak as he added, “And it did, ‘migo, oh it did.”

Something in Grissom’s expression made it clear he got it; understood without any further need to explain. Truman gave a familiar shrug and fished in his shirt pocket for the half-empty pack of cigarettes.

“And now, you love a woman. Maybe it’s the first time for you. Deep, but with sharp edges at times. Wild and sweet, but calm too. A river that flows with both of you in it, Gilberto.”

Grissom’s mouth twisted at the poetic turn of this, but he said nothing as he used one big palm to press on the beginning of a headache in the middle of his forehead. Truman lit up quickly.

“Take the pain with the pleasure. Examine it, remember it; know it’s a gift from your lover to you, this moment to be helpless, Manito.”

Grissom tried to work up some indignation, a surge of annoyance that this bland statement that wasn’t helping at all, but then he realized that Truman was speaking as much to himself as he was to him.  
Grissom reached out; Truman handed him the pack of cigarettes and lighter.

*** *** ***

Sara wandered in the halls of her own mind, dimly aware that she wasn’t awake, but still alert enough to recognize the landscapes flickering by, like movies projected along the walls. There was Tom when he was a sulky teenager, one of the swan boats from the Boston Public Gardens, a fragment of song about little houses made of ticky  
tack . . .

She hummed as she wandered along, not too frightened, more intrigued by things she hadn’t thought about in years: the flavor of Pop Rocks on the tongue; the smell of a beach bonfire; a glimpse of Allen Hocksmeyer from 7th grade PE class—these things registered without difficulty as Sara drifted along. Her thoughts were uncluttered, scattered at random and she inwardly laughed at the disorganization, which she knew wasn’t like her at all.

No, there were things you Deliberately Thought About, things you Filed Away, and things you Pretended Weren’t There in your mind.

Everyday things had the open space to bounce around and be a part of her words, Sara knew. Where her car keys were, if she’d filed the last casefile, what she might make for dinner. Even the odd musings fit here, like whether or not life existed on Mars, or if Archie still had a girlfriend. The mundanities of day to day.

Things she Filed Away were usually more serious, and sometimes sweetly magical: Grissom painting her tummy with raspberry jam; the combination to the wall safe at Ocean Inn; hugs from Sam and Sophie. You took thoughts like that out in private moments and treasured them, like shells from the beach. They kept you going in hard times. They were entrusted to you, or dear to you in ways you’d never have to explain.

Ah, but Sara knew that lurking behind even those, in the far reaches of her mind were the Things she Pretended Weren’t there. The problem was, they WERE there. Always on the periphery of her conscious thoughts, sometimes strong enough to storm through her dreams and make her wake up shivering and cold.

There had been many over the years, but now they only boiled down to a pair of Things she Pretended Weren’t There.

Mom/Dad/Tom/Sam/Sophie hurt. That was a hard one to look at, but Sara knew the odds were at some point it would be true. For Dad it already had been. She still dreaded personal phone calls on her shift. That fear was the bill for having a family, a cost everyone eventually paid.

And--

Losing Grissom.

That was a fist grabbing into her chest and squeezing hard every time it crossed her mind. 

There were so many ways it could happen, all of them terrible. Death was the biggest of course: she’d come up with every scenario she could think of, and when you worked up the hall from a morgue there wasn’t any way for a man to die you hadn’t seen first hand by now.

Grissom Dying was the first head of a two-headed monster.

Grissom Leaving was the other.

At this point in her life, Sara knew pride wouldn’t get her through that. If Grissom told her they needed to see other people, that moving in together was a mistake, that he wanted some space and time to think—all those cliché things men muttered when their eyes were filled with panic and their hands didn’t touch you anymore—she’d probably die herself. Bit by bit, first the hope, then the soul, and then when nothing mattered inside or out, her body.

And the most painful thing Sara had to face in that was if she had to choose now, she’d rather have Grissom die than leave her; evil, selfish and cruel as it was. At least if he died, she would have the knowledge that he’d loved her, and loved her well. Scant comfort in the early days of mourning, but she’d still know it.

But it he left her, after all they’d overcome to get where they were, after all the love and compromise and pain, Sara realized that her heart would never recover from that mortal wound. It wasn’t a matter of pride anymore, it was simply the way she loved him.

Fiercely. Devotedly. Completely.

Restlessly, Sara shifted in the hospital bed as the Demerol coursed through her system, and tears trickled out to wet her bandages. It was hard to hold those thoughts at bay now; her resistance was low, and endless hours loomed ahead. She started to brush her hair back from her forehead when a flash of something black on her palm stopped her.

Blearily, Sara brought her hand up to her face, trying to focus, studying her hand the way a drunk does, nose almost touching it.

Smeary but still legible, Grissom’s declaration still stained her hand, his printing unmistakable; reading it, a hard throb of joy rattled through Sara’s frame, bringing a relief so deep and profound that it surpassed any drug yet known to medicine.

*** *** ***

_I HAVE to?_

The question demanded on the whiteboard. Greg nodded, his grin falsely bright as he stretched the latex tourniquet between his gloved hands.

“’Fraid so, Clem. Grissom’s policy for new hires and interns. So many reasons—but I’m good, or so I’ve been told, and it goes quick, so it won’t take long.”

Clem blinked rapidly, her full lips quivering in a way that made Greg’s stomach tighten. He looked away, sternly reminding himself to stick to the job at hand, which was to stick Clem.

 _Bad thought!_ He blushed, and cleared his throat. With what he hoped was a winning smile, he set the pint packet down and fiddled with the tubing as Clem slowly rolled up the sleeve of her shirt, her dark chocolate eyes on him the entire time.

“Oh come on, you trust me, right?” he pleaded. Her eyes and her head nod said two different things, but she held her arm out with martyr-like patience, and Greg deftly wrapped the latex band around her thin upper arm.

“Like I said, I’m good. My mother’s a phlebotomist with Desert Palms, so blood drawing in the blood, so to speak. Gotta good vein here, yeah, now for a little prick—of the needle, that is! And so goes the flow—!" he pattered his movements economical, practiced and gentle. Clem’s eyes were tightly shut, her long lashes a thick sooty fringe. Greg had the strongest urge to rub her shoulder soothingly, but knew how easily that could be misconstrued, so he settled for patting her hand after he set the needle and vacuum tube in.

The hose darkened; bag began to fill up steadily, rich scarlet fluid puffing the sides out. Greg let out a little sigh of relief and spoke up.  
“There, not so bad, huh?”

He spoke to himself, though, because Clem had quietly, almost gracefully, fainted. She slumped over to the left, her cheek landing on his microscope table, golden curls floundering everywhere as consciousness checked out. Alarmed, Greg rolled his stool closer, and tried to keep an eye on the bag of blood while patting her mocha complexion with his latex-gloved hand.

“Clem? This isn’t funny, okay? Look, a joke’s a joke, but you should have SAID something about being hematophobic!"

But Clem was clearly off in LaLaLand, leaving Greg to look around the glass walls of the lab, hoping someone would come and assist. No one walked by. He sighed, propped his knees up against hers, and tugged on the tourniquet band. It flew off. A few minutes later he busied himself with sealing off the tubes and withdrawing the needle, moving quickly in case Clem either stirred or slipped. She did neither, resting peacefully in her slump. Greg sighed again.

“I guess in a way I deserve it, but the real killer is that was probably the best draw I’ve done to date. Smooth, fast—Mom would have given me a gold star for that one, Vampire Hall of Fame stuff.”

He carefully picked up the packet, and slipped it into his lab coat pocket, then turned his attention back to Clem. Couldn’t leave her in the chair; if she fell out she could get hurt. On the other hand, there weren’t many places here in the lab that were clean or safe for lying down. Greg sighed. After taping a bandage inside her elbow, he pulled Clem forward and over his shoulder, rising to carry her like a sack of potatoes, and enjoying the warm heft of her.

Clem wasn’t big, but she was curvy, and as Greg lugged her down the hall towards Doc Robbins office, he secretly delighted in the caveman appeal of carrying her so easily. She’d probably have objected strenuously had she been awake, or argued about it, so Greg savored both the present moment, and the anticipation of her ire once she woke up and figured out what had happened. A girl with no voice couldn’t yell at him.

He pushed his way in the stainless steel double doors, nearly running into the pathologist himself, who looked up from his espresso—concerned.  
“What happened?”

“Blood draw, for Grissom.”

“God, Greg, how much did you TAKE?” Robbins blurted. 

Greg gave an impatient sigh. "Come on! I’m Norwegian, not Transylvanian. She passed out."

Mollified, Robbins led Greg over to one of the steel gurneys and motioned to it, helping him settle Clem onto it with the ease of long practice. Clem lolled on the table, strong pulse visible along her throat. Greg looked at her. Robbins looked at Greg.

“You like her,” he pointed out with a smile.

Going pink, Greg tried for a nonchalant shrug. “What’s not to like? She’s funny, she’s different—"

“--She’s going to kill you when she wakes up,” Robbins finished.

“That too,” Greg agreed, “But at least Grissom will have her blood, and she won’t have to go through this again.”

A pager went off; Greg fished in his pocket and winced. “Damn. Warrick’s enzyme printout—she’ll be okay here, right?”

Robbins nodded, watching Greg bolt through the double doors and back out into the main lab proper. He ran a hand over Clem’s forehead, lifted her eyelids to check her pupils, and covered her with a drape.

“Hematophobic—that’s all right, hon. Personally, I get the creeps from Pauley Shore movies myself."

He left her there a few minutes later to go deliver a report, whistling as he hobbled pass David in the hall. David headed in and busied himself with the big round autoclave in the far corner of the morgue. The sterilizer’s temperature had been fluctuating, and he was concerned. He carefully pulled out the top drawer and looked at the gleaming scalpels and rib extenders there, then picked one up, studying the edge for any trace of impurities there. As he turned around, he was horrified to witness a body on one of the gurneys sit bolt upright, soundlessly, the drape falling to the floor in a soft whisper. He jumped.

When he did, David hit the autoclave drawer, and the clish clash of tumbling utensils and instruments and pans rattled all over the tile floor, setting up an ungodly racket. David tried to stop the spillage AND keep an eye on the resurrected body, but it was a bit too much, and the noise had already attracted attention.

The double doors swung open as Nick, Hodges and Greg skittered in. Skitter was the operative word; all three men stepped on the metallic mess now rolling towards them on the floor. Hodges gripped the door to a body drawer in an attempt to stay upright, and barely did, but got hit on the head by the body pallet that slid out. Greg fell on his side, landing hard and feeling a distinctly unpleasant squish as he did so. 

Nick windmilled his arms, keeping his balance until he caught the edge of Clem’s gurney, but his weight sent it flying back and he went down on the floor after launching it. Clem hung on as she sailed backwards through the morgue, smacking the far wall, and hitting the fire alarm. Instantly the room flooded with a gentle rain from the overhead sprinklers and the harsh ringing of a bell went off.

For a long, stunned moment, no one said a word. The morgue was a mess: strewn with surgical tools and now filling with puddles of water. The doors opened again, and the rest of the LVPDCL gawked in at the site.

Greg got to his feet, looking down at the huge red stain dripping from his lab coat pocket. He winced, and turned to look at Clem, who upon seeing the blood, promptly passed out again with a heavy ‘clang’ onto the metal table.

*** *** ***

“So—three of them are sporting bandages now?” Catherine asked with barely suppressed amusement.

Jacqui nodded, her eyes wide, but her mouth quivering. “Oh yeah. David sliced up two fingers on the dropping scalpels, Nick cracked an elbow on the floor, and Hodges has a lump on the side his head like a tangerine. The only interesting thing about it is that none of them blame Clem . . . much. I guess there is a sympathy factor for waking up in a morgue.”

Catherine fiddled with the reports in her hand, thinking out loud.“So who’s cleaning up? And more importantly, who’s taking the blame?”

“Clem and Greg are cleaning up, but Robbins is making a big deal about taking the blame for it all. He says it’s his fault not only for agreeing to set the kid on the gurney, but also for walking out on her before she woke up. I think that’s pretty fair of him.”

Catherine conceded on that; Robbins didn’t screw up often, and was pretty good about owning up to it when he did. She glanced at her watch, wondering if there was enough time during the dinner break to swing by home and see if Lindsey wanted a late night burger run. When she looked up, she caught sight of Grissom slinking into his darkened office, and the set of his shoulders looked so unlike his normal unflappable stance that she found herself halfway to him before she realized it.

In the doorway she paused. “Knock knock?”

“Hey Catherine. I hear we had a minor setback in the morgue," Grissom commented, his voice slightly forced. She noted the lines of stress around his eyes but said nothing about them as she parked her hip on his desk.

“Oh yeah, Marx Brothers city, with Clementine right in the Margaret Dumont role. She’s petrified of blood, Gil. Passes out every damn time she sees it.”

Grissom frowned. “That’s not good.”

Catherine refrained from rolling her eyes, barely, the planted a palm on the desk as she leaned closer. “How’s Sara?”

“Right now, she’s got two black eyes, and a nose so covered in gauze it looks like a flattened roll of toilet paper,” Grissom replied reluctantly, trying to tug a file out from Catherine’s thigh.

She shifted to free it, then tossed her hair back. “In other words, you’re still crazy about her.”

Grissom looked up at Catherine, his mouth in a straight line as he replied evenly, “I’m concerned for her well-being. She’s one of my best CSIs.”

Catherine drew back, and as she did so, realized someone else was at the door, within earshot. She nodded faintly to Grissom and turned around to see Sheriff Atwater standing there, his keen eyes moving from her to Grissom and back again.

“Grissom, turn your cell phone on once in a while, and answer your pages if you want to stay on top of this damn town. Tracking you down is NOT a part of my job description you know.”

“Sheriff," Grissom began cautiously, standing up.  
Catherine moved to leave, but not too quickly; Atwater watched her just hard enough to make her scoot out under his gaze. Once she was gone, he turned back to Grissom.

“You up for a little trip up state, Grissom? Say, to Sheba Nevada?” the sheriff demanded, his expression neutral, but his eyes somewhat desperate. Grissom pushed himself away from the desk and looked up, on alert.

“What’s in Sheba, Sheriff?”

“An obligation I need to repay. They’ve got a young law enforcement department that needs some training, Grissom. About a week’s worth of lectures and case studies and hands-on practical applications as I see it. I figured I'd send you, and one other member of your staff to do it. You two get accredited hours, the Sheba sheriff’s office gets the training, and I get Daisy Brandtstein off my back all in one shot.”

Grissom stared at Atwater, who managed a small, cynical smile back.

“Daisy Brandtstein?”

“Yeah, she’s the coroner up there, feisty broad with some clout in Carson City. She did me a few favors in the last election, and I told her I’d make it a point to get her staff updated by the second-best crime lab in the country. Be a good time to test out your second in command, see how Ms. Willows does for an extended run as acting supervisor around here.”

Grissom could practically hear Catherine salivate at that thought, but he kept his face neutral as he stood up.

Atwater stared at him.

“What does Cavello get out of this?” Grissom asked quietly. 

The sheriff shoved his hands in his pockets, a sneer quickly passing across his face. “Oh the usual Sunday supplement story in the Register, and fancy plaque from the Sheba Rotary Club in gratitude for the spirit of co-operation in Law Enforcement. You know Bob and his little trophies.”

At that, Grissom said nothing, but sensed the mild contempt in Atwater’s voice. He crossed his arms. “When?”

“About a month and a half from now, six weeks or so to get it all set up and the paperwork signed.”

Grissom dredged up a cynical smile of his own, meeting Atwater’s gaze and holding it in a cold gaze. “And if I declined this offer, Sheriff? Hypothetically?”

“Well that would be your choice, Grissom. Nobody’s forcing you to do this. On the other hand, a man who passes up opportunities to promote modern techniques and collaboration among Law Enforcement agencies might be seen as unambitious, and ineffective. Enough so that his yearly evaluation could be affected. Not always a good thing for a scientist with your years invested in this job, Gil.”

“Thanks for you concern,” Grissom replied dryly, “And the clarification.”

“No problem. I’ll have my people send the particulars over when it’s all hammered out.” Some of his brash manner seemed to drop away after a moment as he added, “And about Lee . . . Katie wanted me to thank you for helping to nail that Dawes woman. Closure and all. Means a lot.”

Grissom bit his tongue, fighting the urge to point out that no conviction was a guarantee, but Atwater’s expression held a hint of pain, and it was enough to keep him silent.

Without a word the man strode out of Grissom’s office, passing Greg, who looked in with a pained expression.

“Grissom?”

“Yes, Greg?”

“Um, since I took Clem’s blood as per your orders, but sort of, lost it, when I fell and popped it like a serial killer’s piñata in the morgue pileup, I need to know if it would be all right if I just donated a pint myself, instead of, like totally traumatizing her again.”

Grissom lifted his head, cocked it, and gave the younger man a rare smile. “Very good, Greg. Assumption of responsibility, foresight and exercising your options.”

Greg smiled, and looked down, pleased and red in the face. “Oh good. Because Clem’s threatened to remove all outward physical evidence of my Y chromosomes if I ever come near her with a vacuum needle again.” 

END


End file.
